


A Particular Man

by riventhorn



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Slow Build, references to drug addiction related to a case, references to torture related to a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent has two goals in life: avoid getting in another fight with Mansell and somehow find the courage to ask Chandler out again. But as the mystery around Louise Iver deepens, and another murder occurs, the team once again finds themselves confronting the horrors of Whitechapel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to planejane for the Brit pick.

Kent stared at his computer screen and the form he was supposed to be filling out and tried not to let his eyes wander to the frosted glass of Chandler’s office door. The atmosphere in the incident room was…tense. Miles was hunched over a stack of papers that looked uncomfortably like some of the ones Wingfield had given to them. Riley answered the phone in a near whisper, and he could swear that Mansell had practically tiptoed across the room to refill his coffee. 

To say that the last week had been bad would have been putting it mildly. The stress of the case, the momentary triumph of capturing the entire Abrahamian cult, only to have them all killed in that freak collision—“Go easy on the boss for a bit,” Miles had said, and none of them had even needed to see Chandler’s pale, strained face to know they should comply with that order. 

There was something more going on with their DI that Kent couldn’t figure out. Something beyond having the criminals always die before they could be put to justice. If he thought Miles would tell him, he would have asked, but Miles had been angry with him ever since the business with Mansell had degenerated into a fistfight. 

The memory still made Kent squirm with shame. To have his spite, his jealousy all messily laid out in front of Chandler, who valued order and professionalism above everything—it had been awful. And to have to hear the coldness in Chandler’s voice as he ordered him to put some ice on his face, that had been just as bad. So often Chandler was distant and closed-off or else agitated and frustrated, but sometimes a genuine warmth bled into his voice, and his whole demeanor softened. Kent lived to have that softness and warmth directed towards him. 

He knew that Chandler had forgiven him his behavior, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent that quiet “Well done” Kent’s way after he had discovered Josie’s body in the crypt. But still, Kent never wanted it to happen again. He couldn’t let himself get so…so twisted up in his own head. Mansell and he were partners, and he had let it get so bad that Mansell was ready to try and off himself. 

_Maybe other people’s happiness reminds you of what you’re missing._

It was true, what Mansell had said to him. Every day, what he wanted but couldn’t have was standing right in front of him, and at the end of every day, he had to go back to his flat alone. 

That night, when Chandler had congratulated him on a job well done, Kent had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t keep on like this, tormented by desire and jealousy. He needed to screw up his courage and see if there was any possibility that Chandler might return his feelings. If not—well, he would deal with that when it happened.

And so he had asked Chandler to come with him for a drink, promptly losing his nerve and changing the “me” to an “us.” But he felt like Chandler had understood, had noticed his slip (of course he had, no detective would ever miss something like that), and had still said yes. More than that, he had said “I’d love to.” 

But then everything had gone to hell, and here Kent was, two days later, in exactly the same place he had been before this whole mess had started. 

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to ask Chandler again—properly this time, no backing out at the last minute. But Chandler had been in such a bad state ever since the crash, and he knew that even at the best of times, Chandler wasn’t particularly comfortable when it came to potential relationships. In the past, he’d taken a somewhat bitter gladness in that fact because it meant that even if he couldn’t have him, no one else could either. 

Fuck it, he was a coward, that’s what it came down to. It had taken everything he had to ask the last time. To do it again…

Miles’s phone rang, and everyone startled. Kent almost knocked over his cup of tea.

“DS Miles,” Skip said into the receiver. “Yes. Yes, all right.” He hung up, paused to gather some files, and then strode into Chandler’s office. 

“Bearding the lion in his den,” Mansell muttered. 

“Shut it,” Kent returned out of reflex. In truth, he rather agreed with Mansell, especially once raised voices filtered through the closed door. A few minutes passed, Skip and their DI really getting into it, and then Miles reappeared, almost slamming the door, but catching himself at the last minute and shutting it more gently, although it still made an angry click as the handle snapped into position. 

“Listen up,” Miles said and held up a photograph. “Do you remember this woman?”

“Louise Iver,” Riley said. “That nasty old woman who sabotaged our pipes and—and said such horrible things.” Kent thought she might have been about to say something else but had caught herself at the last minute.

“Right, well, the uniforms haven’t been able to pick her up. Can’t find an address, haven’t spotted her anywhere, nothing.” Miles glanced back at Chandler’s office and then went to the whiteboard and tacked up the photo. “The boss has given the go ahead to start searching for her. So I want you lot to put aside whatever you’re doing and put all your attention into this. I want to know who she is, where she comes from, and what the hell she’s doing in Whitechapel.”

“Everyone on deck just because of some leaky pipes?” Kent said, exchanging a glance of surprise with Mansell. “I’ll grant that she’s obviously troubled, sir, but being angry at the police isn’t exactly unusual.”

“No, she’s not angry with us,” Miles said. He stared at the photo, his eyes hard. “She’s toying with us. Toying with people’s lives. And I want it to end.”

“You might as well tell them.” It was Ed, emerging suddenly from the basement to hover in the doorway. “Unless you have rejected that particular… _theory_.” He said it as though he was being quite charitable in calling it a theory as opposed to a crackpot idea. 

Miles glared at him. “All right; I will.” He went back to his desk and pulled out another photo that he pinned up on the board. “The Krays in the 1950s. Look who’s standing right behind them.”

Kent peered at the grainy photo. It was an older woman, hair pulled back—

“Are you saying that’s Iver?” Mansell exclaimed. “Come on, Skip, you’re joking, right?”

Miles met their incredulous stares. “Why Whitechapel? Why all the horrible murders? We’ve all been asking those questions. Well I say that she’s responsible.” He stabbed his finger at Louise Iver. “She’s Wingfield’s _provocateur._ ”

“But you can’t really tell from this photo,” Riley protested. She had left her desk and gone to the board for a closer look. “It’s not very good quality. And it’s impossible, for her to look the same in the 1950s as she does today.”

“That’s what I said,” Ed agreed, smiling at Meg. And wasn’t that a change of pace, to have Ed on the rational side for once and Skip throwing around wild notions. 

“It’s her,” Miles insisted. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but it is.”

Kent frowned. The women in the photos did look awfully similar, but… “What does the boss think about this?”

Miles turned his glare to Kent. “He gave the go ahead to investigate, didn’t he?”

After a long argument, which implied that Chandler had no confidence at all in Miles’s theory. Kent decided not to say this, however, his self-preservation instincts overriding his desire to be on Chandler’s side in any argument. 

“Suppose it can’t hurt,” Mansell said, leaning back in his chair and getting his jacket even more rumpled than it had been already. “If she does turn out to be just some crazy old lady, though, we’ll know you’re going round the bend, Skip.”

“Believe me, I’d almost prefer that option,” Miles returned grimly. “Unless something more pressing comes up, I want you to pursue any leads related to Louise Iver.”

“Yes, Skip,” Kent replied, hearing the others echo him. He turned back to his computer. Well, at least this would be better than the mind-numbing formalities of bureaucracy. He clicked the form closed and pulled up one of their databases instead. The uniforms would have run all the usual searches, but Chandler had impressed upon them the importance of being thorough and double-checking everything.

*

Three hours later, and no one had a solid lead. Kent leaned over Riley’s desk, watching as she scrolled through marriage licenses on the off chance that “Iver” was the woman’s married name.

“But we don’t even know if it’s her real name,” Kent said, voicing what all of them had been thinking. “She could have told Ed anything.” 

Mansell stood up and came over to join them, munching on some crisps. “You know it’s funny, but I almost feel like I’ve heard her name somewhere before. Before Skip brought it up the other day, I mean.”

Kent nodded. “I sort of thought the same thing, but I can’t figure where. Not at Ed’s book launch. I wasn’t paying attention to who he was signing copies for.”

“Well so far, I’m afraid Skip’s paranoia is proving justified,” Riley put in, giving up on the licenses and rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. “If she is just a regular old lady, why isn’t there any trace of her in the databases?”

“It must be a false name,” Kent said, “or else Ed remembered it wrong.”

Chandler chose that moment to emerge from his office. Kent hastily crossed back over to his desk, Mansell hot on his heels. He sat down and picked up a piece of paper, not wanting it to look like he had been chatting and idling instead of working. He couldn’t help watching, though, as Chandler gave the whiteboard a contemptuous glance and then walked quickly past their desks, not paying attention to any of them.

Kent tried to ignore the little sliver of disappointment that lodged in his chest. He hadn’t expected Chandler to remember about the drinks, not with what had happened, but part of him, some stupid, ridiculous part of him had still hoped. _Just ask him again_ , he told himself, but an hour later, when their shift had ended, he turned off his light, went round the desks with the bin, cast a longing look at the light still shining under Chandler’s door, and then shrugged on his coat and left the station. Just like he always did. 

*

Erica called him just when he’d opened his takeaway carton and was emptying the chana masala onto a plate. Stifling a sigh, he answered his mobile. Otherwise she would just keep calling and leaving annoying messages.

“What is it?”

“Hello to you, too, Emerson.” He could hear the faint sounds of the telly in the background. “Finlay says you stayed late at work again.”

“Tell him to stop telling you everything that I do at work. It’s creepy. And I didn’t stay late—I left a few minutes after he did.”

Lillian appeared in the doorway, dressed in her robe and slippers, wet hair tucked into a towel. Kent waved his fork at her, but Lillian nicked a piece of his chicken anyway. She did fetch him a beer, though, so he forgave her. 

“If you ever told me anything, I wouldn’t have to ask Finlay to,” Erica retorted. “And when are you going to introduce me to this DI of yours?”

“He’s Finlay’s DI, too.”

“Yes, but Finlay isn’t harboring a massive crush on him.”

Oh, God. Why, out of every man in London, had Erica decided to get together with Mansell? More proof that despite being twins, they really did not have much in common. “It’s not fair that Finlay tells you this stuff,” he protested. 

“Now don’t start in on him again,” Erica warned. “All Finlay told me was the object of your infatuation. I’ve known something was up since before I moved back to London. Not one date, Em, not for ever so long.”

Of course, he’d hardly been going on lots of dates at any point in his life. But Erica always assumed her life was the normal one, and she’d dated all sorts of blokes. Until Finlay came along. Fuck, why did it have to be him? 

“My dinner’s getting cold, Erica.”

“I know he’s handsome,” Erica mused, ignoring him. “I saw him at that author thing at that bookstore. But who wears black tie to something like that? Unless he’d been at some fancy dinner and only dropped in—ooh, is he rich, Em? Finlay, is your DI rich?”

There was a pause as Mansell shouted something. Kent felt the beginnings of headache stir behind his eyes.

“Finlay says his family has money.”

“It doesn’t matter if he has money. He doesn’t care about stuff like that.” Kent sighed. “Look, Erica, I really have to go. I’m tired.”

“Fine, but ring Mum, won’t you? Every time I call her she asks about when you’re planning to talk to her or if you’ve forgotten she exists.”

“Yes, I will ring Mum.” Anything to get Erica to hang up.

“And Emerson?”

“Yes?”

“Grow a pair and ask the guy out, would you?”

The dial tone sounded, and Kent chucked his mobile down on the table. The worst part was that she had only said aloud what he had been thinking. 

*

Riley tapped her pen on the desk. “Louise Iver doesn’t show up in the census records.”

“Again, we don’t know if it’s her real name,” Kent returned. They had spent another fruitless morning scouring records and databases and were now gathered around two large pizzas set out on Mansell’s desk. Kent had very carefully wiped the grease off his fingers and then knocked on Chandler’s door to ask if he wanted any. 

Chandler had jerked his head up, surprised, and blinked at him. Then he had looked down at his watch where it lay on his desk in its proper place. “It’s lunchtime,” he had said quietly.

“Yes, sir. Are you hungry?”

“I’m getting as bad as Ed,” Chandler had murmured and then looked at Kent again. “Pizza, you said? No, thank you.”

_And what about a drink after work_?

“All right, sir.” Kent had hesitated a moment and then departed. Chandler had already let his eyes drop back to the papers on his desk, although Kent suspected his mind was elsewhere, dwelling on whatever had been bothering him since the Abrahamian case. 

It was the thought of that case, the grisly memories of the bodies in the sewer, that made him remember. He dropped his half-eaten slice and swirled his chair around to face his own desk. “I’ve got it—I’ve remembered where I saw Louise Iver’s name before.”

“Where?” Mansell demanded, and Riley perked up, looking intrigued. If Miles had been in the room, Kent was sure he would have pounced like a bloodhound on the scent.

It took him a moment to go through the files—luckily, they hadn’t been sent to storage yet. “Here it is. Anne Ayers—the second victim—would take hot meals to the elderly. On the night of her murder, she was in Whitechapel, and she was delivering a meal to Louise Iver.” 

“Does it give an address?” Riley asked, and Kent nodded.

“Yes, right here. Apartment 66b, just off Wentworth Street.”

Mansell shut the pizza box. “Let’s tell Sarge.”

Kent glanced towards Chandler’s door. He could go announce it to their DI, but the last time he’d circumvented Miles, he’d almost had his head bitten off. Swallowing the need for Chandler’s approval, he sat down to wait for Miles. He pulled out his mobile and thumbed through a few texts from Lillian, apologizing about forgetting to leave money for rent and promising to have it that night. She had moved in a few months ago and wasn’t the worst flatmate he’d endured. She worked for a catering business and did her share of the cleaning and only had friends over once or twice a week. 

There was also a text from Erica: _CALL MUM._

Followed by: _And come have dinner this weekend. I’ll make sure Finlay behaves._

Grimacing, Kent shoved the phone back in his pocket. He didn’t have the best relationship with his mother. She had never quite accepted that he was gay, treating it like some sort of phase that he would grow out of eventually, and his stepfather wasn’t much better. His dad was more supportive, but he’d moved to Berlin years ago and rarely made it back to London for visits. And Erica had been gone for so long, first with a postdoc fellowship and then living in the States. It was odd having her around again.

Popping his pen cap on and off, he contemplated the prospect of a dinner with her and Finlay. There would be all her art, strewn over her flat. He was proud of her, but he didn’t understand it, all the fibers and colors and strange shapes. But he’d be expected to come up with something to say about it. They would have to sit around, drinking and chatting. Erica and Finlay would tease each other—and him, no matter what Erica promised—and Erica would tell him that he worked too hard, wasn’t he ever going to get a life outside the station, for God’s sake? 

It always hurt, when people said that. Maybe he didn’t go in for lots of parties or have many hobbies, but he didn’t want them. And he did good work here. But people just dismissed it because he didn’t have a husband or kids or any desire for them. 

Chandler wouldn’t want kids. He wouldn’t care about buying a house or getting smashed on Friday nights. He wouldn’t mind the notebooks Kent kept, filled with all his observations about things. He would be all right with just holding hands occasionally and not snogging at every available opportunity. (That was another thing he’d have to put up with at Erica’s—her and Finlay groping each other and kissing every other minute.) He wouldn’t be angry about all the time Kent spent at work, not when he put in just as much if not more time.

Or at least, so Kent imagined. He blinked and realized he’d been staring at Chandler’s door for the past five minutes. Flushing, he looked away, checking to see if Riley or Mansell had noticed. Mansell was smirking at him. 

“Don’t you have something you’re supposed to be doing?” he muttered.

“You’re the one’s been staring at the boss’s door,” Mansell retorted.

He was trying to think of a response that didn’t involve an outright lie that Mansell would see through in a second when Miles entered the room, Ed a step behind him, both of them bickering about something. Kent jumped up to intercept them. “I’ve got an address for Louise Iver.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Miles said, and Ed listened in as Kent explained. Miles clapped his hands together when he was finished. “Right. Take Mansell and go check it out.”

Kent stretched an arm towards his chair, groping for his jacket. “Yes, Skip. But what about—”

“The boss isn’t too keen on this line of inquiry,” Miles said, cutting him off. “Let’s see if there’s something worth raising a fuss over first.”

*

Apartment 66b huddled on one side of a yard full of rubbish. The paint on the door was faded and peeling, and the windows were too dirty to be able to see inside. They both looked at the numbers, nailed to the wall.

“Bit suggestive, isn’t it?” Mansell commented. He lifted the knocker and banged it down. No answer. 

“We could look for the landlord,” Kent offered, casting a dubious glance at the surrounding flats. All of them bore similar signs of disrepair and neglect. Whoever did own them certainly wasn’t doing a good job with upkeep.

“Or, we can jimmy the lock and save ourselves the trouble,” Mansell said, testing the knob.

“We can’t just break into someone’s flat!”

Mansell crouched down to examine the lock. “Why not?”

“Because she’s not a suspect in a case, and we’ve no proof that she’s connected to anything.” Kent grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “All we have is a grainy photo from a camera Miles stuck up on a pipe.”

“You,” Mansell said, “are no fun.”

“Yeah, I think you’ve made that point before.” The yard was still empty, only a few pigeons and the sound of cars on the nearby road breaking the silence.

“’Course if we go back, we’ll have to tell Sarge—and the boss—that we found nothing. That we didn’t even get in the door.”

Kent knew what Mansell was trying to do, but the thought still made him pause. He looked back at the rusty nails holding the numbers in place. “Can you…?”

Mansell grinned. “Are you kidding? My last partner and I used to have a running bet on who could pick a lock the quickest.” He bent down again. 

Kent turned back around to keep watch. “She could come back any time, so hurry it up.” God, if they got caught, and Chandler found out…Kent felt a little sick, just thinking about his reaction.

But when Mansell sprung the lock, and they stepped cautiously into the hall, it quickly became apparent there had been no cause for worry.

“No one’s been in here in ages,” Mansell said. “Smells like mold and dust and mice.” He held his sleeve over his nose.

Kent coughed. It _was_ a strong odor. He turned on his torch and shined it into the first room they passed. There were a few bits of furniture, all covered in dust. “Ayers can’t have been here. Maybe the agency got the address wrong.”

“Could be,” Mansell agreed, opening a narrow door that turned out to be the bathroom. “Ugh. This is where the mold is spreading from.” 

Kent peeked over his shoulder and grimaced. Good thing Chandler hadn’t come along.

The kitchen was also empty. The last door in the hallway led to the bedroom. Kent stepped inside, flicking the light over a bedframe, a chest of drawers, and a small doorway to a box room. He was about to leave when he noticed something, a bright glimmer amid all the dust. “That’s funny.” He walked over closer to it. “The knob on the door here—it’s clean. No dust or anything.”

Mansell came up behind him and sneezed. “Sorry.” He peered at it. “You’re right.”

They shined their torches down onto the floor, but there weren’t any footprints besides their own in the accumulated grit and dust. 

Kent tugged on his gloves, just in case there might be useable fingerprints, and carefully twisted the knob. The door swung inward, into a smaller bedroom, and they both moved forward, following it. He had a brief impression of a strange symbol scrawled on the wall, and then—then it was like the darkness overflowed, spilling out and over them, drowning their lights and sweeping everything away in a sickly, black tide.

It was hot, as though they’d stumbled into a jungle. A cloying scent surrounded him. He felt disoriented, dizzy, like the moment in an elevator or an airplane when you hung suspended for a split-second and your stomach tried to climb up into your throat.

And then the darkness passed, and he was left hanging onto the wall, panting, Mansell clutching the edge of the door beside him.

“What the fuck was that?” Mansell gasped, sounding as shaken as Kent had ever heard him.

“You felt it too, then?” he managed. His skin was prickling with sudden fear, sure that someone was here with them—but when he whirled around, the room was still empty. Swallowing and trying to get his hand to stop shaking, he shined his torch back into the box room, moving a little further inside.

The symbol he had noticed before jumped into bold relief, black paint standing out against the incongruously floral patterned wallpaper. It was a spiral, circling hypnotically into a small point. Two lines, each topped with an upside down triangle, were on either side of it. Below the symbol was a table and what could only be called an altar. Half-melted candles stood upon it, along with a mirror, a silver bowl, and a lump of wood that looked vaguely like a man, hunched over and grotesque. A man or a monster.

Half-repelled and half-fascinated, Kent’s hand was drifting towards it when Mansell grabbed his wrist. “Don’t touch it!”

“It’s just a piece of wood,” he protested, but he didn’t try to touch it again. _There is always a rational explanation_ , a voice that sounded like Chandler’s said in his head. But the sensation of complete and utter _wrongness_ persisted, weighing down the shadows that clustered beyond the beam of their torches, waiting to rush at them again. 

“There’s nothing else here,” Mansell said after a few more agonizing seconds. “Let’s go.”

Kent didn’t argue, not wanting to stay a second longer, either. Mansell led the way, and he followed him, back across the room and down the hall. He had to fight the urge to keep checking behind them, in case someone was following. The flat was empty. There was no one creeping in their footsteps.

Still, he breathed easier once they were outside, and the door was locked again. 

“That was…” Mansell trailed off and then tried again. “Fucking spooky is what it was.” 

“What do you think that symbol meant?”

“Don’t know. Buchan will probably have some theory.” Mansell jerked his head at the car. “Let’s go.”

Kent glanced around one last time and then followed.

*

“It was a spiral, surrounded by some funny lines,” Kent told Miles for the fifth time. The DS had been grilling them about every detail since they’d got back.

Miles held out a marker. “Draw it on the board.”

Kent exchanged a look with Mansell. “I…I’d rather not, Skip.”

“Why not?” Miles demanded. “This could be important.”

Flushing, Kent looked down at his desk. “What if it means something bad? What if it’s used to…summon things?”

Miles made a disgusted noise. 

“You’re the one who thinks Iver is some immortal demon,” Mansell muttered. Surprised at getting his support for once, Kent shot him a grateful look. 

“It just felt all wrong,” he tried to explain. “The symbol and the altar and that—that thing on it.”

“We’re going back,” Miles declared, “and we’ll do a proper search. If nothing else, there’s plenty of health and safety violations. Sounds like the place should be condemned.” 

Chandler’s voice suddenly rang out, crisp and clear and efficient, “Going back where?”

They all turned to face him. Chandler still looked more tired than usual, but he seemed more in control, more like their usual DI than he had the past few days.

“We might have found a residence for Louise Iver,” Miles said and then explained what had been going on. “I didn’t think it was worth bringing up unless the lads found something, which they certainly did.”

Chandler raised his eyebrows. “A few dusty things forgotten when whoever lived there moved away? Look, Miles, I gave you some leeway with this, but I can’t sanction an investigation of an old abandoned flat. If Iver ever did live there, she obviously left years ago.”

“But the box room,” Kent began, and then wished he hadn’t when Chandler’s cool gaze met his. “Someone _had_ been there recently, sir. The mirror, the bowl—they were all clean, not dusty at all, and the door knob, too.” 

“We’ll take Buchan with us,” Miles said, “and he can have a look at those symbols. And if it turns out to be nothing, then I’ll drop it, I promise. But there’s something there; I can feel it.”

A little smile quirked Chandler’s mouth. “Didn’t you say ninety-nine percent of your hunches turned out wrong?”

Miles nodded, but he didn’t smile. “This is the one-percent.”

“All right.” Chandler straightened his cuffs, tugging each one into precise alignment with his jacket. “We’ll go look, but then that will be an end to it. We have real work to do.”

He turned back to his office, and the rest of the team began grabbing jackets and mobiles and keys.

Kent stepped after him. “Sir?”

Chandler turned back around.

He drew a breath, right hand curling into a fist around his phone, the plastic digging into his skin. “We—we never did get to have that drink, sir. Would you like to go to the pub later?”

A long, dreadful pause. Kent couldn’t keep his eyes on Chandler’s, had to keep glancing elsewhere.

“Yes,” Chandler said. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Relief made his hands tremble. “Great,” he managed to say. “Great.” 

Chandler didn’t linger and was soon out the door with Miles, and Mansell was yelling at him to hurry up. Kent lurched into motion. He had done it. He had asked, and Chandler had said yes.

It was going to be—well, it was either going to be a disaster or one of the best nights of Kent’s life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to London or Britain and rarely attempt to write contemporary fic set there, so a thousand thanks to planejane for helping out with the Brit pick! Any remaining Americanisms are my fault.

Apartment 66b didn’t seem as frightening with all of them inside, particularly once Riley had opened all of the curtains. Kent exchanged a sheepish look with Mansell when Ed strode right into the box room and began examining the symbols painted on the wall with a muttered, “Fascinating!” 

Chandler looked uncomfortable and steered clear of the bathroom. Miles set them to going through every drawer and cabinet and turning over every piece of furniture. They found nothing but thick dust and cobwebs. But then Riley emerged triumphantly from behind the bed with a photograph clutched in her hand. 

“Found this stuck in the skirting board,” she said.

They all gathered around to look. It was a color photograph of a young girl, perhaps around seven or eight years old. The edges were curled and torn. 

“When do you reckon that’s from?” Mansell asked.

“The 1980s,” Riley answered promptly. “With hair like that—frizzy with such an awful fringe, and that hot pink shirt—it has to be the eighties.” 

Everyone spent a moment wincing over unfortunate fashion decisions of the past. “She’s too young to be Iver,” Kent said, after pushing away the memory of his secondary school days. “If she’s in her seventies now, she would have been a little girl in the 1940s.” 

“We can ask the neighbors, see if anyone has lived around here long enough to remember her,” Miles decided.

“Do you have any idea what those symbols mean?” Chandler asked Ed, who had remained in the adjoining room, studying the objects on the altar.

“Oh, I have several theories,” Ed replied. “But I’ll need to verify them.” He shot them all a severe look. “I know full well what derision I subject myself to when I voice my theories without proof.” 

“Try it this once,” Miles said, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “For me.”

“No, it will keep,” Chandler interrupted. “There’ll be time enough for it tomorrow. I’ll just box up these things and take them to the station, in case we need to reference them.”

Kent bit back a protest as Chandler reached out and picked up the wooden figure. He shivered, but nothing happened, and soon everything was resting in a cardboard box, looking like the sad remnants of a rummage sale. Still, he couldn’t help shivering again as he looked at the figure. It appeared…sinister, as though it was biding its time, waiting to spring forth as some unknown horror. 

Mansell jostled his arm. “So, this weekend, Emerson. You coming over to dinner?”

“And voluntarily spend more time in your company? What do you think?”

Mansell actually looked kind of hurt. “Erica wants you to visit. I’ve tried to make her see sense,” he added, although it sounded half-hearted, “but I guess the bonds of sisterly love overcome good judgment.” 

He wanted to say something cutting, but he’d vowed to move past this. “All right. I’ll come on Saturday.”

“You will?” Mansell said, surprised, but then he smiled. “Great. So what’s your least favorite nosh? Cos that’s what we’ll be having.”

“Ha,” Kent returned flatly and went outside. He watched two pigeons tottering along the pavement, and then looked over to where Chandler and Miles were getting into their car. The subsequent rush of nerves made his palms sweaty. In perhaps an hour, he would be in the pub with Chandler.

“Emerson, come on,” Riley called, and he hastened over to where she and Mansell were waiting for him. He slid into the backseat without protest and spent the ride to the station peering at his reflection in the window and trying to get his hair to lie flat and his collar straight.

In the incident room, as everyone prepared to head home for the night, he went and knocked on Chandler’s open door. “Is The Fox all right, sir?” he asked.

Chandler looked up from organizing the papers in his briefcase. “Not our usual spot, then?”

“Thought we might try something a bit different.” Particularly because he was not about to risk running into Miles, Mansell, or anyone else from the station. They also were steering clear of the pub haunted by Ed and his fellow Ripper enthusiasts. 

“That will be fine,” Chandler said. “I should be there shortly.”

Kent nodded, trying to control his rocketing heart rate. He did his usual round of picking rubbish off everyone’s desks, hoping it might hasten Chandler’s exit, and then clattered down the stairs and out into the car park. As he started his bike and joined the flow of traffic, his mind was already speeding on ahead through the darkening streets to the warm interior of the pub and the table where he would soon be sitting with Chandler. It felt like his whole reality was narrowing down to that one point. He couldn’t think past it—didn’t dare try to imagine what might happen. His hopes had been raised so often before, only to crash unceremoniously back to earth.

In The Fox, he picked a table with a good view of the door, so he wouldn’t miss Chandler when he arrived. He took a sip of his bitter, just to moisten his dry mouth, and then twisted the glass in between his fingers, slowly rotating it on the table’s hard wooden surface. 

Chandler’s version of “shortly” was actually half an hour, but he spotted Kent as soon as he walked in and joined him at the table after getting something to drink. 

Kent opened his mouth, and then suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His jacket felt much too warm, and he contemplated the merits of struggling out of it and possibly discovering that sweat had dampened the underarms of his shirt, or else sitting there with his face flushed. 

Before he could decide, Chandler said, “Aren’t the others coming?”

His heart sank, and now he really did blush. “I—I meant it to be just us, sir,” he stammered. “I…thought you knew.”

“I did know,” Chandler replied. His left hand strayed towards his right wrist, as though searching for something, and then he caught himself and put his hand back on the table. “That is, I thought so, and I only wanted to be sure that I hadn’t…misinterpreted.” He sounded as awkward as Kent felt. 

“You didn’t.” Was this a good or a bad thing? He looked at Chandler, unsure how to proceed.

Chandler sighed. “Kent, you know this can’t happen.”

Bad, then. He tried to speak past the pang constricting his heart, to come up with something nonchalant, to pretend to not be as devastated as he felt.

“I’m your superior officer,” Chandler continued. “It would be inappropriate.”

“But, sir,” Kent protested, hope stirring once more, his emotions a rollercoaster that he could only cling to desperately, “I wouldn’t expect you to treat me any differently on the job.” He thought of bringing up Mansell as an example of other relationships between DIs and DCs, and then thought better of it.

Chandler smiled, very gently. “And off it? You can’t even stop calling me ‘sir’.”

“I’m sorry, s—” He floundered, not sure if first names were allowed.

“It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry, Joe.” He’d never said Chandler’s first name aloud before, and he wanted, very much, for Chandler to call him “Emerson.” 

But Chandler stayed strictly professional. “I can’t risk our integrity as a team, Kent. You know how long it took me to bring us together. These last few weeks, we almost fell apart again. Becoming romantically involved with my DC would be a disaster waiting to happen.”

He couldn’t help hunching over a little, wishing that he had never asked Chandler here. At least before, he had been able to imagine this going well—now, he would only ever be able to remember these last horrible minutes. 

“Look, I—I don’t want to hurt you.” Chandler started to reach across the table towards him and then hesitated, finally smoothing down his tie instead. “I value your loyalty and your—well, I should like to think that we are friends, that I have your friendship.” 

“You do,” Kent managed to choke out. 

“Good, good.” Chandler moved his glass, the napkin container, and the salt and pepper shakers into an orderly line. “Sometimes I join Ed or Miles for a drink outside work. I—I wouldn’t mind doing the same with you. But it can’t go beyond that.” He glanced up at Kent. “It wouldn’t be you, who ruined things. I’m quite terrible at romance, you see. Things always…they never end well.”

 _I’m just as terrible. Obviously._ He dredged up a smile. “I’d like that, si—Joe.” 

Chandler nodded and drank his beer too quickly. Too worn out and miserable to think of any conversation topic, Kent just stared at his own glass until Chandler muttered something about both of them having had a long day, and he would see Kent on Monday. 

Kent didn’t raise his head to watch him walk out.

*

“And you just let him go?!”

Kent nudged his foot along the side of the breakfast bar, turning the stool he was sitting on in a little half circle. “What could I have said?” 

Erica laid aside the knife she was using to chop onions. “You could have told him why you like him so much. You could have pointed out his hypocrisy in saying a relationship between a DI and a DC was against the rules, when he’s the one who had no problem getting involved with a suspect in a murder investigation.” 

“Mansell told you about Morgan?” Kent scowled. “You didn’t even know him then.”

“I demanded the backstory.” She crossed her arms and pinned him with a look. “You know what you have to do, don’t you?”

“What?” he muttered, knowing he sounded sullen and not caring.

“You have to take him up on his offer to go for drinks again and find out exactly how he feels about you.”

“I was sitting right across from him when he said it could never work. That seems pretty clear to me.”

“All he said was that it’s against the rules. He never said that he didn’t _wish_ it could happen.” Erica picked up the knife again and resumed chopping. “All you have to do is nudge him over the line from friends into lovers.”

 _Lovers._ Kent grimaced. That was not a word that could be applied to Chandler. Or himself. They would be…partners. In all senses of the word.

As soon as he’d arrived at Erica’s flat, bottle of wine in hand, Erica had immediately sensed something was wrong, and hadn’t let up until he’d told her. The only mercy she had shown him had been in sending Mansell out to pick up some ice cream for dessert before interrogating him on what had happened. 

“Your flat looks really lovely,” he said, in a weak attempt to change the subject. It was true, though. Plenty of windows made the interior bright and airy, and Erica had chosen her furnishings with care, lots of earth tones and subtle patterns. A few of her own pieces decorated the walls, and some houseplants completed the picture. 

“Thank you,” Erica replied, letting him get away with the diversion. “Feels like I never left the city in some ways; I’ve settled right back in.”

“And Mansell? Is he—” _Cheating yet_ , was what he wanted to say, but he stopped himself. He wouldn’t assume. 

“It’s good.” She smiled, giving him a wink. “I don’t let him pull any shit.”

“He actually behaves?”

“Like putty in my hands.”

Kent couldn’t quite credit these claims, but seeing how Mansell acted around her when he returned with a tub of mint chocolate chip, he had to admit that there might be some truth to what she’d said. Mansell helped her with everything—cooking, serving dinner, clearing up—and he looked at her like she was something precious, like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

“So, which do you reckon would annoy Skip more as a birthday present—one of those funny charms to ward off evil like Buchan gave the boss or a year’s subscription to _Saga_ magazine?” Mansell asked him after dinner, when they were settling on the couch with tea and ice cream. He actually put a coaster down on the table under his mug. A housebroken Mansell. Wonders never ceased.

“The _Saga_ , definitely. He’d never admit to reading something for the over-fifty crowd, but he might actually like the charm.” Kent rather wanted one himself, unable to forget that sensation of evil that had swept over them in Iver’s flat.

“This thing with Iver really has him shaken up,” Mansell agreed. “I thought if any of us were going to start believing in the supernatural, it’d be you.” 

“You were the one spooked by funny phone calls,” he shot back and then wished he hadn’t because along with the phone calls had been the whole mess with Erica. Kent just wanted to put that behind him. So he added, “But you can’t deny we’ve seen some strange things.”

Mansell put his arm around Erica’s shoulders as she sat down beside him. She gave both of them a stern look. “And I don’t want to hear about any of them,” she said. “Murders, violence—I’ve never understood how you can live with it, Em, and I don’t want all the details.”

“Sorry, love.” Mansell kissed her temple. “Have you told Emerson the good news?”

Kent gave her an inquiring look. “No, she hasn’t. What gives?”

“I’ve been selected to show some of my work at a gallery exhibition,” she replied. 

“Congrats—that’s excellent. When?”

“Three months from now. It’ll be absolutely mad, trying to be ready in time.”

They talked for a while longer and then Kent said he had to go. It hadn’t been as terrible a Saturday evening as he’d expected. Mansell had been markedly less annoying than usual. Of course, on his way out, Erica said, “Remember, Em, don’t give up on getting him,” and he knew that the second the door closed behind him, she’d be telling Mansell everything about him and Chandler. Mansell had already teased him unmercifully on the subject; he hated to think what he’d be like now.

But Erica was right. He shouldn’t give up. He never gave up on catching a suspect or solving a case, and he needed to apply the same dogged determination now. 

*

Monday morning found them on the scene of a domestic—nothing special, very obvious that the husband had done it, and he wouldn’t be hard to locate. Kent had expected Mansell to jump on him immediately about Friday evening at The Fox, but he said nothing. Kent was not about to question his good luck. 

They’d hardly made it back to the station and the inevitable paperwork when Buchan came through the door, a stack of files clutched in his arms, and announced dramatically: “Satanism!”

Silence settled, and Chandler emerged from his office. “You found something on the symbols, Ed?”

“Oh, yes!” Ed plopped the files down and selected one from the pile. “There are many signs of the occult, many misunderstood and misused by contemporary satanic worshipers. Satanism, of course, as well as Devil worship, has a long history, dating back centuries. It was not until the seventeenth century that popularly available grimoires began to be published, but accusations of witchcraft and worshipping the Devil exist long before that. However, it was in a 1689 grimoire—an 1845 reprint, to be more precise—that I discovered the particular symbols we are concerned with.” 

He bustled over to the whiteboard. “Here is a copy of the page in question. You will see that this is a description of a rite to summon a demon. The symbols we found are central to the ritual, along with the use of a mirror, and a blood offering.” 

Kent peered at the sheet that Ed had pinned to the board next to the photos of Iver and the one of the little girl that they had found in the flat. Sure enough, there were the symbols. “And what about that piece of wood?”

“Uncertain,” Ed replied. “Perhaps a representation of the demon in question.”

“We know who the demon is,” Miles said. “And what it looks like.”

“Miles, please,” Chandler interjected. “If Louise Iver is connected with this—and we still have no definite proof that she lived in that flat—then this is merely evidence that she is involved in some sort of cult. She certainly isn’t a demon in human form.”

Miles looked mutinous, but Ed spoke up before he could disagree. 

“Although I agree that Iver isn’t an _actual_ demon, we cannot discount the possibility that she _thinks_ she is one or is carrying out its orders.” Ed adopted what all of them termed his “tour guide voice.” “There have been numerous crimes connected with satanic cults. Such as Gilles de Rais, a French nobleman who, in 1440 was convicted of murdering at least forty children in his attempts to summon a demon. Although some believe him the victim of an ecclesiastical conspiracy, there is compelling evidence that he kidnapped local children and forced them to participate in obscene rituals before decapitating and disemboweling the bodies.” 

Kent grimaced, praying that Iver wasn’t going to incite anyone in Whitechapel to copy those crimes. Cases involving children were always rough.

“Look, we know Iver has mental health problems,” Chandler said, a definitive tone in his voice. “And we know that she sabotaged our pipes. Beyond that it is purely speculation, and we are starting to go off on wilder and wilder tangents. I want facts, not nonsense about demonic rituals.”

Ed deflated visibly, and Miles scowled. “Then we’ll find the proof,” he said.

“We could,” Ed began hesitantly, “look through photographic archives related to Whitechapel murders. Perhaps we might find a clearer picture of Iver at the scene than the one with the Krays.”

“If that’s how you want to spend your time, I won’t stop you,” Chandler told him. “Seeing that we don’t need your input on any current cases.” He stepped over to the whiteboard and swung it round, all the photos and grimoire pages disappearing to the back and leaving a blank surface. “The rest of you will concentrate on your usual duties. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Kent said, echoed by the others, even Miles.

But as soon as Chandler had shut his office door, Miles leaned towards Kent. “Once you’ve finished the paperwork on this morning, I want you to find out who owns that flat and the surrounding buildings.”

“But, Skip, the DI just said—”

“I know what he said, but you still follow my orders, too. If he gives you any grief over it, I’ll take the blame. But wouldn’t you rather be investigating this than the latest B and E?”

“I guess so,” he muttered, and Miles clapped him on the shoulder. Sighing, Kent prepared himself for a long day with the land registry. He couldn’t understand why Miles was so adamant about finding Iver—or so willing to entertain irrational explanations about her activities. It was also strange to have Chandler so against the investigation. Even though he had never countenanced anything but a rational view of events, Chandler had also never simply closed down a line of questioning, no matter how bizarre. 

It was late afternoon when he saw his chance to talk to Chandler alone. The DI had gone to the gents, and Kent slipped out of the incident room, loitering by the head of the stairs until Chandler reemerged. 

“Sir?”

“Kent.” Chandler stopped, his gaze briefly meeting Kent’s and then sliding away to peer out the window. 

“Last week,” Kent said, pretending he didn’t notice Chandler’s wince, “you said that you wouldn’t mind going for drinks again. But I was thinking, there’s an exhibition on British realists at the Embankment Galleries—Erica told me about it—that I thought you might like.”

Chandler blinked at him, fiddling with his cuffs. “An art gallery?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I—yes, yes, all right.” He shot Kent a nervous look. “But you understood me, when I said—”

“I know.” Kent tried a smile and got a faint one in return. “I’ll behave myself, sir. I won’t try to kiss you in front of a Von Herkomer.” 

Chandler gave a startled laugh. “As long as it’s just as friends, I’d be glad to.”

“Perhaps we might leave a bit early on Wednesday and go, unless we’re needed here, of course?”

Chandler must really have been flustered, for he agreed to the plan. He stood a moment longer and then hastened back to his office with a muttered, “Well, back to work, then.” 

When Kent got back to his desk, Mansell gave him a thumbs up. Kent shook his head, but couldn’t quite hide his grin.


	3. Chapter 3

Kent stood a careful foot from Chandler as they both stared at Hedley’s _Cat in a Cottage Window._ He didn’t want to give the impression that he was encroaching on Chandler’s personal space. 

“I like the crack in the window, just there,” he said, pointing.

“And the curled leaf on that flower,” Chanlder added. 

“I’ve always thought detectives and painters have a lot in common,” Kent continued. “We both have to observe—really _look_ at things.”

A smile briefly crossed Chandler’s face. “I never thought of myself as an artist, but yes, I suppose we do share that trait.”

“At least for art like this. That’s why realism has always been my favorite.” He glanced at Chandler, but he was still looking at the painting. “Erica does these bright, colorful pieces with fiber and acrylics. They’re very…emotional, but I’m always trying to figure out what they’re supposed to be, and I never can.” Turning away, he wandered to the next picture in the gallery, Chandler following. “She laughs at me, says they don’t have to _be_ anything.”

“My grandmother liked to decorate her house with bizarre clay sculptures,” Chandler offered, unexpectedly referencing his family. “Only because the artist was someone well known, and his artwork cost a great deal, of course. I always hated them. They looked so…unfinished.” He cleared his throat, eyes flicking nervously towards Kent, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal so much.

Kent wanted to tell him that he would never trample on any confidence that Chandler shared with him, but bringing attention to it might make Chandler even more uncomfortable. So he leaned towards the wall, pointing. “Look at this one, and the seeds on every blade of grass.”

They stayed until the gallery closed. Chandler paused outside on the steps. “Thank you, for inviting me. I haven’t been to an exhibition in years.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, si—Joe.” Kent caught himself. It still felt strange to say Chandler’s name out loud. He knew he shouldn’t press his luck, but couldn’t help adding, “Would you like to come over to my flat for a cup of tea? My flatmate is out for the night, I think.”

Discomfort twisted Chandler’s mouth. “No, I—that is, thank you, but no.”

He nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show. He had cleaned the flat thoroughly, just in case. Now would be the time to say goodnight, but he stayed silent, unwilling to bring the evening to an end.

“Miles is having you pursue Iver, isn’t he?” Chandler said abruptly.

Thrown by the sudden change in subject, Kent’s shoulders jerked, his eyes darting away. “I’m sorry, sir. I know you said not to, but Skip insisted.”

Chandler sighed. “It’s all right. I’ll have a talk with him tomorrow.” He paused and then asked grudgingly, “Did you find anything?”

“Well, the flat and the building it’s in are owned by some Russian company. They have plans to tear it all down and build something else. They bought it from an American company of similar designs. After that, the paper trail gets even more convoluted.” He had spent all afternoon looking through deeds and trusts before giving up in despair. “What it boils down to is that any tenant records are long gone. We’d have to start knocking on doors and asking neighbors.”

“I thought it would be a waste of time, but Miles does get set on these things.” Chandler nodded briskly. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Kent.” 

Kent raised a hand in farewell, trying not to feel discouraged. If nothing else, he’d have a happy flatmate. It had been Lillian’s turn to clean that week, and she’d be thrilled to discover that he had done it instead. 

*

“Skip and the DI are really going at it again,” Mansell muttered, glancing at the closed door and the muffled, but angry voices that could be heard.

Kent made a noncommittal noise, knowing exactly what Miles and Chandler were arguing about. When Miles emerged a few minutes later, red-faced, he met Miles’s furious gaze with a mutinous one of his own.

“I couldn’t keep it a secret,” he said. “And I won’t do any more side projects for you without the boss’s approval, either.”

Riley and Mansell both looked rather shocked that he had defied Skip so openly, and Kent suppressed the urge to apologize. He wouldn’t hide things from Chandler. 

Miles sat at his desk and yanked a drawer open. “We’ll all regret it when Iver sabotages our next investigation,” he bit out. “But the boss won’t hear another word about her.” He kept up a low grumbling, and the rest of them bent to their tasks, even Mansell keeping quiet so as not to draw his ire.

“Decided to stop kissing Skip’s arse, did you?” Mansell said to him later in the morning, cornering Kent by the copier. “’Course, I know whose arse you _want_ to be kissing—”

“What are you, twelve?” Kent demanded, grabbing his papers from the copier tray and rounding on Mansell. “It’s because of crap like this—juvenile, _stupid_ teasing—that he’ll never even _consider_ —”

“Hey, whoa, take it easy.” Mansell put a hand on his shoulder as Kent’s voice wavered, and he dislodged it with a violent shrug. “I thought things were going well between you,” Mansell persisted, lowering his voice.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Kent deflated, sighing. “I can’t ask him out every evening, can I? He doesn’t go out all the time with Miles or Ed, and that’s what he wants me and him to be like. Nothing beyond friends.”

“Guess we’ll have to play dirty, then.” Mansell grinned at Kent’s look of disbelief. “What? You think I’d leave my partner hanging, not help him out? Our DI is fit, and you could sure benefit from getting some—maybe it’d relax you a bit. Him, too.”

Kent popped him on the arm, although without any real force. “Please never say those words to me again. You thinking about the two of us—” He grimaced, wrinkling his nose.

“You make it hard not to—mooning over him all the time.” Mansell put a hand on his shoulder again. “I’ll get Erica to throw a little party and invite everyone on the team. She can chat with Riley, and Skip and I will watch the game, and that will leave you and the boss all by your lonesome.”

Kent eyed him suspiciously. “You would do that?”

“Of course!” Mansell grinned. “I’ll even make my famous curry.”

“Thank you,” Kent said slowly, still not prepared to completely trust that this wasn’t the elaborate set up to some joke. 

But that night Erica called him, enthusiastic, giggling and promising to keep everyone out of the guest bedroom so he could lure Chandler in there for a snog.

“That will not happen,” Kent protested, but Erica ploughed on, heedless. 

“You have to seize the initiative. On our first real date, Finlay and I—”

“Please. Please, no,” Kent interrupted and hung up before she could continue. Mansell might not have a problem imagining him and Chandler together, but Kent did not want images of Mansell and his sister engraved on his brain.

A minute later found him ringing her again. “Promise me that you’ll clean every centimeter of your flat,” he said as soon as she answered. He could just picture her rolling her eyes.

“I know how to host a party, Em.” 

“Yes, but Joe…” He hesitated, trying to think of a tactful way to say it. He never wanted to cause Chandler any embarrassment, however unintentional.

“I know, Em, Finlay’s told me all about it,” Erica reminded him. Her voice turned gleeful. “‘Joe,’ now, is it?”

“Oh, shut it,” he muttered and hung up again to the sound of her laughter.

*

Mansell proffered the invitations to Chandler and the rest of the team the very next day, inviting them to his and Erica’s flat on Saturday evening. Chandler voiced a cautious acceptance, brow furrowing. Kent knew that he must already be worrying about how to act in a new environment—what to wear and what to say, whether or not it would be clean and what to do if it was not. He’d gotten used to Miles’s place by now, but Erica’s flat was an unknown. 

Kent longed to reassure him, wished that he could step over and squeeze his hand to let him know that it would be fine. But that would be crossing the boundary Chandler had set. The only one Chandler trusted enough to confide such things in was Miles, and Kent rebuked himself for the flare of jealousy at the thought. He should be glad that Chandler had someone, that he felt so comfortable with Miles. It was only that he wanted Chandler to be equally at ease with him.

“We’re all set,” Mansell whispered to him as he sat back down at his desk, and Kent mustered a weak smile in return. 

“Did you invite Ed?” Riley asked.

“Didn’t think he’d be interested,” Mansell hedged.

Riley gave him a stern look. “He’s part of this team, too. Now get down there and ask him.”

Mansell heaved a sigh but got up again. Riley shooed him to the door. “You might want to apologize while you’re there.”

“For what?” 

“You know what.” Riley gave him a last push and then came back over to Kent’s desk. “And don’t you worry, Emerson. I’ll make sure Ed doesn’t monopolize the DI’s attention.”

Kent blushed. “Mansell needs to keep his mouth shut.”

“Oh, love, you’re very obvious, you know.” She chuckled and wandered off to speak to another detective. 

*

It figured that the very next morning they would get a call that a body had been discovered. The details emerged once they arrived at the scene, a small park with weed-choked paths and rusting swings. A jogger had found the body on his morning run, just before seven. It had been dumped under a bench, wrapped in a blanket. Chandler and Miles immediately went to view it and hear Llewellyn’s report. Kent was ordered to interview the jogger.

He found him standing next to a police car, dressed in black joggers and a grey T-shirt. Mid-thirties, Kent estimated, fit, with longish brown hair and brown eyes. He kept rubbing his arms and glancing over to where the police were cordoning off the crime scene. 

“I’m DC Kent.” He took out his notebook, flipping to an unmarked page. “If you can just answer a few questions….?”

“Logan Foster.” Swallowing, he leaned towards Kent. “You’ll see that he gets a proper burial, won’t you? That poor kid…”

Kent wrote down his name. “And what’s your address?”

“2448 Hanbury Street. What—what will happen to him?”

“We’ll try to locate his family.” Foster’s eyes once more turned toward the crime scene. Frowning, Kent moved so that he was standing in his line of sight. “Do you run this way often?”

“Two or three times a week.”

“Did you see anyone else this morning?”

Foster shook his head. “It’s usually pretty deserted, that time of day. Sometimes somebody is out walking their dog, but there was no one this morning.”

Kent nodded. “And how did you discover the body?”

“I noticed something under the bench—a bright blue blanket. Thought at first some homeless guy had fallen asleep. But something about it looked…wrong. So I went over and…and that’s when I saw the blood, all over it.” He drew a shaky breath, shutting his eyes. “I drew it aside and…” His eyes flew open, and he made an aborted move to grab Kent’s arm. “Promise that you’ll take care of him? He’s just a kid.”

“We’ll do all we can to identify him and locate the family.” Kent made a few more notes. “And can I have your phone number in case we need to get back in touch?”

Foster gave it to him, and Kent left him in the hands of a uniform. He walked around the perimeter of the park, joining up with Mansell near the bench in question, now enclosed in the crime lab’s white tent. Mansell shrugged. “Nothing obvious lying around. Killer probably drove here.”

“The jogger didn’t see anyone.” Kent tucked his notebook away. “Any identity on the vic yet?”

“Nope. Get this, though, his ears and tongue had been cut off.”

Kent grimaced. “And what killed him?”

“Couldn’t hear that part.”

They didn’t get the full details until they were back in the incident room, and Chandler was tacking the first photographs up on the whiteboard. Kent hadn’t seen him so focused and in control since before the Abrahamian case began. Maybe he’d been able to put what had happened behind him at last. And maybe this time, they would finally catch their killer alive.

“There were no forms of identification on the body,” Chandler announced, pausing a moment and then untacking one edge of a photo and moving it slightly upwards. “We’re running the fingerprints now. Our victim’s throat was cut. Time of death probably between one and four a.m. last night.”

He stepped back, and Kent got his first good look at the body. It was a young man, probably early twenties, with dark hair. He appeared to have been on the shorter side, thin, with pale skin. He had been wearing a pair of boxers and a white T-shirt, both of which were soaked in blood, as was the blue blanket surrounding him. 

“As you can see,” Chandler continued, “both of his ears had been sliced off with a knife, and his tongue was cut out. Llewellyn thinks that both injuries occurred several hours if not days before his death. You’ll note the bruising and chafing on his wrists, suggesting that his hands had been tied, and that he had struggled.”

“So the killer kidnapped him and kept him alive for a while, torturing him,” Miles finished. 

“Look at the way the body is laid out in the blanket,” Riley said. “It’s posed.”

Indeed, it looked oddly peaceful, absent of all the blood and disfigurement. The killer had carefully folded the man’s hands across his chest and tucked the blanket around the body, like a shroud. 

Chandler made a noise of agreement. “I’ll see if Ed has any precedents. The rest of you, concentrate on finding his identity.”

“I’ll start looking through missing persons reports,” Kent said to Mansell, who was still examining the photos.

Mansell grunted and turned away, shaking his head. “Hope we catch the sick bastard who did it.”

*

They knew the victim’s identity by the end of the day, the fingerprints coming back with a match.

“Ira Lamberson,” Kent announced, reading the report aloud. “Picked up just over a year ago on a drunk and disorderly. Twenty-two years old at the time of the arrest, lists a Whitechapel address, but his next of kin—father and mother—live in Chelmsford.” 

Chandler went over to the whiteboard and carefully wrote Ira’s name over the photo of his body. “I’ll notify his parents. We’ll interview them tomorrow when they arrive. In the morning, Kent and Mansell will go to the Whitechapel address to see if he was still living there.”

“Yes, sir,” Kent said. It was getting late, and everyone began preparing to leave for the night—everyone except for Chandler, who remained standing in front of the whiteboard. And probably Buchan, buried down in the archives. 

Kent slipped on his jacket and then hesitated. “Do you want me to make the call, sir?” It was always rough, breaking the news to a mother or father that their child was dead.

Chandler glanced at him. “No, it’s my responsibility.” His voice softened. “But thank you.” 

“This time we’ll get them, sir, and bring them in alive.”

Chandler’s gaze turned inward, mouth tightening in a slight frown. Then it smoothed out, and he focused on Kent again. “We never know what an investigation will bring. We can only strive to do our utmost.”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated and then added quietly, “Good night, Joe.”

Chandler frowned again, but after a moment he nodded. “Good night, Kent.” 

He stopped for takeaway on his way back to his flat. “Long day?” Lillian asked when he came in the door, kicking off his shoes as he balanced the paper bag and his helmet in one hand and his keys in the other. She was on the couch, watching telly and curled up under a blanket.

“Yes.” He set his things down on the table and then sank down beside her, loosening his tie. 

She poked him in the leg with her toes. “It’s Friday, though.”

“We have to be in tomorrow. New case,” he explained, and she made a face.

“Sorry.”

Kent shrugged. “I didn’t have any other plans. Not until the evening anyway.” He wondered if they would all still be able to go to Erica’s party or if Chandler would keep them working the case. In all likelihood, even if Chandler gave the rest of them the evening off, he would stay at the station himself, using the murder as a handy excuse to avoid going to Erica’s. 

Smothering a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet again and went to change into something more comfortable. Admittedly, he had grown fond of his suits, but he still liked his hoodies and jumpers when he wasn’t on duty. He had often wondered what Chandler wore around his own place. Mansell opined that the DI wore nothing but suits—“Bet his bloody pajamas have a button-up collar”—but Kent imagined that he forsook the suits for something soft and comfortable, worn from many washings. 

Probably he’d never find out, he thought gloomily. Transferring his dinner to a plate, he went back to the couch, and Lillian scooted over so he had some more room. She had switched from the news to some cop drama.

“Tell me all the things that are wrong with it,” she said, and Kent complied, trying to push away thoughts of Chandler with the frankly ridiculous examples of police procedure currently filling the screen.

*

Sure enough, the next morning Chandler told Mansell that he didn’t think he could make it that night, although he wanted the rest of them to enjoy themselves, unless they made any major breakthroughs in the coming hours that necessitated their working a double shift. 

Mansell protested, but Chandler was unmoved. 

“Go and ask him to come,” Mansell hissed at Kent from the safety of their desks.

“Why? It wouldn’t do any good.”

Mansell made a frustrated noise and spun Kent’s chair around. “Just do it.”

So Kent—privately wondering when he had started listening to anything Mansell said—went over to where Chandler was conferring with Miles. Chandler paused and looked at him expectantly.

“I—we—I mean—” He took a breath. “ _I_ had hoped you would come tonight.” He kept off the ‘sir’ by sheer force of will. 

Chandler shook his head. “Not in the middle of a case.”

“Kent’s right,” Miles said. “You should come. Does the team good to have their DI acting human once and awhile.” 

“Please,” Kent added. “I told Erica exactly how you like things.”

Chandler wavered, clearing his throat and doing some unnecessary straightening of the papers in front of him. “All right,” he finally said. “Unless something really pressing comes up in the case.”

Kent grinned, and to his delight, Chandler smiled back before resuming his conversation with Miles, who gave Kent a calculating look and then waved him off.

“Told you he’d listen to you,” Mansell said as they headed down to the car park. “Bet you’ll be back at his flat by the end of the night. Have enough condoms? If not, I’ve got a few—”

“You’re as bad as Erica,” Kent interrupted, appalled. 

“What’s wrong with thinking about sex? Or wanting it? Come on,” he jostled Kent’s elbow, “don’t tell me you aren’t thinking about stripping that suit off him and—”

“Maybe—all right, yes, but not right away,” Kent replied, clicking his seat belt shut. “And maybe never with all the things you’re thinking about.” His head thumped against the seat. “It’s hard to explain.” He paused and then added, “And I don’t really want to talk about it with you.”

“Suppose it is weird to be talking to my girlfriend’s twin about his sex life,” Mansell allowed and turned on the radio instead.

Kent rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a headache coming on. How could he explain to Mansell what it felt like to be attracted to someone—to love them—and yet not be particularly interested in sex with them? At least, not sex the way someone like Mansell defined it. 

When he thought about what he wanted with Chandler, it didn’t involve fucking or blowjobs. Maybe at some point, he would want that, but not immediately, perhaps not ever. He wanted to lean against Chandler’s broad chest and feel his arms wrapping around him. He wanted to slip his hand into Chandler’s sometimes and rest his head against his shoulder. He wanted to smooth away Chandler’s tension with his own fingers, dipping them into the Tiger Balm and circling them slowly on his temples. 

From what he had seen, Chandler was not particularly comfortable with touching others or expressing affection, either, and he imagined they would fit together well, neither of them pushing the other. His past two boyfriends had never understood that, had always assumed that his reluctance to kiss or sleep together meant that he had no feelings for them. He thought—hoped—Chandler would be different.

He didn’t want to discuss any of this with Mansell and was happy to let the radio fill the silence until they arrived at the last known address for Lamberson. It proved to be a dodgy looking house, subdivided into flats. They went up to number two and rang the doorbell. 

About a minute passed before a young woman answered it. Uncombed blonde hair, red-rimmed eyes, a stained dressing gown thrown on over too-thin shoulders—he didn’t even need to see the needle marks on her arms to guess she was a junkie.

Mansell held up his badge. “DC Mansell. This is DC Kent. Do you know an Ira Lamberson?”

Her tongue flicked over cracked lips. “Yeah, I do. He’s my boyfriend. Claims to be, anyway. Where the hell has he been this past week, that’s what I want to know.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why? What’s he done?”

“We have some bad news. Can we come inside?” Kent asked, trying to keep the look of distaste from his face. They’d have to inspect the flat, and it was sure to be a mess. 

She slowly moved back from the door, her face wary. “What’s happened to Ira?”

“There’s no easy way to say it, but he’s dead,” Mansell told her. 

“Dead?” Her voice rose, hitting a high and shaky note. “How? When?”

“Thursday night. I’m afraid that he was murdered.”

Her face grew paler, and she sank down on the couch. 

Kent flicked on the overhead light. The room was sparsely furnished, dirty plates and empty beer bottles scattered around. “We need to ask some questions,” he said. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Lisa Clow,” she said, lighting a cigarette, her eyes dazed. “I—I can’t believe it. I never thought he was in danger, when he disappeared like that.”

“When did you notice he was gone?” Kent asked, pulling out his notebook.

“Last Friday.” Her eyes filled with tears, a few spilling down her cheeks. “We were going to the pictures, I forget which one, and he didn’t show. I thought he was with that bitch, Cora. I never thought—oh, God.” She started sobbing.

Kent glanced at the only other chair in the room, an armchair covered in stains of dubious origin, and remained standing. 

Mansell handed her a tissue. “How long had you two been seeing each other?”

“For years. We came down here together, from Chelmsford.” She dabbed at her eyes and took a drag, steadying herself. “Ira’s parents were real assholes. They always hated me, for one. They wanted Ira to go get a business degree, but he had real talent. He’s a great singer.” She faltered. “He…was, I mean. It hasn’t been easy, but he’s gotten some gigs. Things were really looking up.”

Kent doubted that. “Did he work anywhere else?”

“He’s had lots of jobs. We both have. But none of them ever understood Ira.” She blinked at them through the smoke. “He had an _artistic_ temperament.”

And a habit of shooting heroin.

“These past few weeks, he was working the night shift at a warehouse, unpacking and loading trucks. He would always get back really early in the morning. I would yell at him for waking me up.” Her voice caught, and she started sobbing again. 

“What about people who might have wanted to harm him?” Mansell asked. 

Lisa shook her head, stubbing out the cigarette and wiping at her nose. “There’s nobody. Well...maybe Ethan or…I guess Daniel.”

Mansell leaned forward. “And who are they?”

“Danny is the drummer, in their band. Cora is his girl, and he thought Ira was trying to steal her. They hadn’t been getting on well, anyway, once that recording contract fell through.”

“And Ethan?” Kent prompted.

Lisa shifted nervously, licking her lips again. “Ira owed him some money.”

Kent exchanged a look with Mansell that said clearly “drug dealer.” 

"I'd put money on the dealer,” Mansell said in an undertone as Lisa showed them where Ira kept his personal effects in the bedroom. “He might have wanted to make an example, could explain the mutilation.” 

“Keeping him for a week seems a little extreme, though,” Kent replied. “And you’d think he’d have been here, asking Lisa for the money, threatening to kill Ira if she didn’t pay up.”

They shuffled through Ira’s things, which seemed to mostly consist of notebooks filled with poorly written lyrics. Looking around the room, with its grubby furnishings and the drug paraphernalia likely hidden in the drawer Lisa kept glancing at, contempt curled Kent’s mouth. But Ira still didn’t deserve what had happened to him, he reminded himself. He still didn’t deserve to die in pain and terror. 

They collected Danny’s address from Lisa, the name of a pub where they might find Ethan, and her phone number.

Back in the car, Mansell had to turn the key a few times before the engine started, accompanied by unhappy whirring noises. 

“Still better than that kid’s toy you ride,” Mansell muttered in response to Kent’s raised eyebrows.

Back at the station, they found Riley and Ed sitting at her desk, poring over a stack of photos. 

“Her hat’s in the way,” Riley was saying. “All you can make out is that she has gray hair. Probably.” She looked up. “Hi, guys. Any luck?”

“Some possible suspects,” Kent replied. “Where’s Skip and the boss?”

“Interviewing the parents. They got here about half an hour ago.”

Ed gathered some of the photographs and thrust them under Mansell and Kent’s noses. “Study these carefully and tell me what you think. Doesn’t this woman—here and here—look like Louise Iver, the _provocateur_?”

“I thought the boss didn’t want us working on that anymore,” Mansell protested. 

Ed waved a hand. “Your current case is still in its nascent stages—no pattern has yet emerged, nothing of note to which I could draw a comparison. Besides, I have certain freedoms unknown to Detective Constables who must obey the chain of command.”

Mansell snorted. Kent peered doubtfully at the grainy images. “They’re hard to make out.”

Ed grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately the microfilm scanner is not what it should be. I have pointed this out repeatedly to Joe, but budgetary constraints apparently override all else.”

“It could be her,” Kent said, “but it might not be, too. When are these from?”

“The 1960s. I’ve been combing the newspaper archives for unusual cases in Whitechapel. But the reporters rarely photographed the bystanders. Most of the images are blurred.” Ed gathered the photos back together. 

“Best get them out of here before the DI gets back,” Riley suggested. “Even if you _do_ have free rein, none of us want him to get in a tiff with Miles again.”

Kent made some tea while they waited, and Mansell started to check up on Ethan. Miles and Chandler appeared just before lunchtime, with word that Ira had been estranged from his parents, who hadn’t heard from him in over a year. The parents had jumped immediately to the conclusion that his death was related to drugs. Ira had already been addicted before he left, they said. But they didn’t know any names, no particulars that might help.

The rest of the afternoon proved equally discouraging. Mansell, after a few phone calls with his buddies in Vice, discovered Ethan’s last name, but also that he had been arrested on Wednesday and had been in a jail cell when Ira’s body had been dumped. Accomplices were possible but unlikely. Ethan sounded like a small timer, more interested in getting payment than killing his clients.

Chandler and Miles went round to Danny the drummer’s flat, but returned with word that he had left that morning to visit friends outside the city and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Given that they had nothing definite to tie him to the murder, questioning him would have to wait. 

“Nothing keeping us from those beers and curry then,” Mansell said, and Chandler reluctantly gave permission to wrap it up for the day.

They all stayed a moment in front of the whiteboard, looking at the photo of Ira’s body again.

“Looks a bit like you, Emerson,” Riley said, tilting her head.

“You think I look like a druggie?” Kent replied, insulted.

“No—of course not! But the dark hair, similar features…” She shrugged. 

Kent glanced at the photo and then away again. He didn’t like bearing a resemblance to murdered drug addicts, however slight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to planejane for teaching me the particularities of British birthday cakes and flat architecture.

Erica had set out several bowls of crisps on the counter. A trail of crumbs had formed over the past two hours as people dipped into the bowl and transferred the crisps to their plates. Kent watched as Chandler brushed the crumbs into a pile on the counter and then into his napkin before depositing it in the bin. He glanced up, caught Kent’s eye, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry. I was just…I didn’t mean to imply that your sister doesn’t have a nice flat.” He crumpled another napkin in his fist.

Kent shook his head. “Who doesn’t love guests who help clean up the mess? I mean, Erica’s with Mansell—I’d imagine she’s thrilled to be around people who clean up after themselves for a change.” This was, perhaps, a slight on Mansell, who Erica claimed did his part in terms of housework, but it was worth it to see Chandler’s smile. Besides, Mansell had been so keen to help lately that Kent figured he wouldn’t mind. 

He and Chandler were sitting at the breakfast bar, perched on stools. True to their word, Erica and Mansell had rounded up the other members of the team in order to leave him alone with Chandler. Mansell and Miles were yelling at the football game on the telly while Erica listened to Riley and Ed debate the merits of various period appropriate costuming for the Wars of the Roses. Kent was going to owe Erica for this one—judging by the glazed look in her eyes, she longed to break free but remained in place, helping Riley keep Ed occupied with questions whenever he made an attempt to wander over and talk to Chandler. 

"Don't you like football?” Chandler asked, as Miles uttered a particularly loud oath over a red card.

“I follow Bournemouth, because my dad was from there, and we would go and see matches sometimes. But I think I’d go deaf sitting over there by those two.”

“They are…enthusiastic,” Chandler agreed. He glanced at the couch, at the others around the table, at the little kitchen bearing the evidence of Mansell’s culinary skills (and Kent had to admit the curry had been quite good). An almost puzzled look crossed Chandler’s face. “If things had worked out as they were supposed to,” he began slowly, “I would have spent the evening in a members-only club, drinking scotch and chatting with the Superintendent.”

“And would you rather be there?” Kent made himself ask.

It took Chandler a moment to answer. “No,” he said at last, and then he laughed, a brief huff of amusement. “No, I really wouldn’t.” 

“I’m glad you’re not,” Kent told him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Chandler rested his hand atop Kent’s where it lay on the counter. 

Then he drew back, and Kent’s heart resumed beating. He spoke quickly, before things could turn awkward. “The other DIs we had before you—it would be a lie to say they didn’t care, but it wasn’t the same. You want justice, and you care, not just about the victims but about all of us on the team.”

“Yet terrible things keep happening.” Chandler met his eyes. “We don’t get justice. And I haven’t done much of a job keeping people safe—Miles and Ed almost died, and you…”

“You can’t think we blame you for any of that?” Kent protested. “You _saved_ Miles and Ed, and it would take worse than what the Krays did to keep me down.” He spoke the words bravely, although the scars still troubled him sometimes, and he could never quite forget the panic or his useless struggles against the men who attacked him.

“I know it.” Chandler’s smile was deeper this time, and Kent yearned to call it a fond smile, to believe that he really did see affection there. “I never thanked you properly for finding me the chalk, that first day.” His smile slipped. “Standing up to your friends can be the hardest of all.”

“I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.” Mustering his courage, Kent touched Chandler’s shoulder. “As for justice—it doesn’t have to mean due process of the law, Joe.”

Chandler accepted the touch, but he replied, “For me it does. I swore to uphold the law. Without that—without order—there’s nothing left but chaos and anarchy.” He looked down at his hands. “Do you know what Iver said to me? She said that never bringing in a killer alive was a terrible legacy.”

Kent rubbed his thumb over the shoulder seam of Chandler’s jacket. “You can’t believe crazy old ladies, Joe.”

Chandler stared at his palms a moment longer and then shook himself, pulling away, and Kent reluctantly let his hand drop. “Of course not.” He stood up. “The toilet?”

Kent pointed down the hall, praying Erica had cleaned thoroughly. “That way.”

By the time he got back, the game had ended, and Riley had already gone home as the babysitter would only stay until nine. Chandler offered his good nights as well, and Miles and Ed followed after thanking Erica and Mansell for a pleasant evening.

“Well?” Erica asked, turning towards Kent as the door closed behind them.

Kent shrugged. “Sometimes I think there’s a chance. Other times…”

“Nah, he’s head over heels,” Mansell said, giving him a bracing slap on the back. “How many other people does he smile at like he was smiling at you? Only other thing that makes him that pleased is discovering a connection between some obscure historical murder and whatever case we’re working.”

“What an awful comparison!” Erica exclaimed while Kent removed himself from Mansell’s reach. “But you did seem to be in close confidence there for a while, Em. That foretells good things, I should imagine.”

He felt again Chandler’s hand upon his and hoped that Erica was right.

*

Daniel Ickes—Danny to his friends—sat sullenly across the table from Chandler and Miles in the interview room. He didn’t look the part of a drummer in the type of band Kent imagined Ira had cobbled together. No tattoos, piercings, or leather jackets, just a nondescript brown coat, short-cropped hair, and dark stubble on his jaw. 

He glared at Miles and Chandler and got right to the point. “So you think I killed Ira?”

Riley, sitting behind the glass with Kent and Mansell, raised her eyebrows. “Not beating around the bush, is he?” she murmured.

Inside the room, Chandler leaned forward. “Did you?”

Danny made a disgusted noise. “No.”

“Where were you on Thursday night?” Chandler asked.

“At home. I got home around, oh, seven, I s’pose, and I stayed in.”

“Was anyone there with you?”

“No.”

“Not your girlfriend?” Miles chimed in. “What’s her name? Cora?”

Danny shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. “No. She wasn’t there.”

“So no one can verify what you say?” Chandler persisted.

“No, but it’s the truth.” Danny shook his head. “I suppose Lisa told you something. What did she say? That Cora was trying to steal Ira from her? That I was jealous and got pissed enough to go after Ira? She’s the jealous one.” His mouth twisted. “She’s the one who kept Ira on drugs. He’d have cleaned up if it wasn’t for her, and maybe we could have done something with the band.”

“Who else is in your band?” Chandler asked.

“At the moment? Just Ira and me. Our last guitarist left a couple weeks ago. I didn’t blame him. We’d finally got a chance at a contract with a small studio. But our first recording session, Ira showed up an hour late, totally wasted.”

Miles leaned back in his chair. “Why’d you stay with him then?”

“Because despite everything, Ira did have a really good voice.” Danny uncrossed his arms and started picking at a dent in the table with his thumbnail. “Guess I was stupid, hanging on with him as long as I did.”

Miles looked skeptical. “You think you’re good enough to make it in the business?”

“Maybe. I’ll probably never know, now. I have another job, a chance for a promotion.” He kept his eyes on the table. “The drumming will have to go, I s’pose.” 

Chandler nodded. “It’s really Ira’s fault, then, that you lost the chance to pursue your dream.”

Danny shot him another angry look. “I told you, it was Lisa’s fault. Not Ira’s. The drugs—that was all her.”

Chandler shuffled through the items in front of him and pulled out a plastic evidence bag, a sheet of paper inside. “This is one of Ira’s songs that he was working on before he died. It’s about a woman—black hair, blue eyes, and ‘the sound of New York in her voice.’ Isn’t Cora from New York?”

“And she has black hair and blue eyes, yeah.” Danny’s glare intensified. “So Ira was writing about Cora, so what?”

“It’s a love song,” Miles interjected. “Seems like Lisa had good reason to think Ira was shoving her aside for Cora. Were you really that oblivious to it?”

“God, do you take everything this fucking literally?” Danny muttered. “She was just inspiration. It wasn’t like Ira personally had any feelings for her.”

Miles snorted. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Probably he was doing it just to get at Lisa. They did that—always needling each other. Lisa would go crazy over any sign that he’d even _looked_ at another girl.”

Kent exchanged a glance with Mansell. “Maybe we should have taken a closer look at Lisa and Ira’s flat.”

Mansell nodded. “You thinking Lisa might have done it?”

“If she was jealous enough? Maybe?”

“Seems too brutal a killing for a woman.”

“Hush,” Riley interjected, motioning them to silence.

“Were you aware that Ira had been missing for a week?” Chandler was asking.

“Kind of,” Danny replied. “I mean, he didn’t show up for one of our practice sessions last Sunday, but that wasn’t unusual. I had a call from Lisa on Monday—screaming at me about Cora and Ira, demanding to know where they were. I told her to fuck off. That I’d seen Cora that morning, and that Ira hadn’t been there.”

The interview concluded a few minutes later. “What do you think, sir?” Kent asked, as Chandler and Miles joined them.

“He was too relaxed about the chance that Ira and Cora were cheating on him,” Miles said. “There’s no way she’d be able to cheat on him now, is there? Maybe he ensured it would never happen.”

“We should talk to Cora,” Chandler decided. “If Danny was holding Ira hostage for a week, she might have noticed strange behavior. And we can ask her about her feelings for Ira directly.”

“What about Lisa?” Mansell asked. “Emerson and I were thinking that if she was so jealous, that’s motive.”

“It sounds like they had the definition of a destructive relationship,” Kent added.

“If Lisa was going to kill anyone, I’d think she would kill Cora,” Riley objected. “Not the man she was trying so hard to keep.”

Kent had to agree with her on that. Besides, Lisa had seemed too strung out to mastermind a murder. “Any word from forensics?”

“No useable DNA,” Chandler replied. “Fibers on the victim’s clothes and on the blanket could be matched if we ever find the location he was being held.” He took a breath, pressing his fingers to his temple for a moment. “Right. We’ll talk to Cora. Riley, go to the warehouse Ira was working at and see if anyone noticed anything—anyone strange hanging about or things like that. Take this back down to evidence, would you, Kent?” 

Kent took the bag with the song lyrics. “Yes, sir.”

Down in the evidence room, he located the correct box, half his mind on the case, the other half on what he should make for dinner and whether he really needed to get new tires for his bike or if he could wait another month. He was turning towards the door when his eyes landed on another box, sitting on the floor in a dark corner, its lid ajar.

He frowned. Evidence shouldn’t be left lying around like that—there was an easy to use filing system in place that any competent person should be able to remember. He moved towards the box, intending to put it back on the shelves. But as he drew nearer and could make out the label, his steps faltered.

It was the box holding the things they had taken from Iver’s flat. 

Kent was aware that his mouth had gone dry, and his heart rate had increased. Why wasn’t it on the shelf? Who had moved it? He had no doubt that Chandler had seen it to its proper place originally. 

What if, when he lifted the lid, that twisted wooden figure was no longer there? 

He took a step forward and for a moment, the same sense of disorientation, of nauseous dizziness that he had felt in Iver’s flat assailed him. His breath choked in his throat.

Then it passed, so quickly that he wondered if he had imagined it.

He wanted to leave the box where it was, but he made himself bend down and lift the lid. 

The wooden figure stared up at him, and a trick of the light made it seem like a shiver of movement passed over it as the harsh fluorescence of the bulb overhead replaced the lid’s shadow. Swallowing, Kent tore his eyes from it to check the rest of the items. Nothing appeared to have been taken. 

Heart still beating too fast for his liking, he replaced the lid and put the box on the correct shelf. But he couldn’t help the way his skin crawled, as though something might reach for him as soon as his back was turned. 

Aunt Jeni had always said you could sense evil. 

He wasn't proud of how fast he walked to the door, nor the way he slammed it behind him and had to stand there a few minutes, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. 

*

“You seem kind of jumpy,” Mansell commented as they got into the car, off to canvas Ira and Lisa’s neighbors in case someone had noticed a stranger hanging about the place. Just because it was more likely that someone who knew Ira had killed him didn’t mean they could rule out random crazies. 

“It’s nothing,” Kent said, although he’d been thinking about that bloody wooden figure for the past hour, unable to get it or Ed’s theories about demons out of his mind.

Mansell turned the key, and the engine wheezed pitifully. 

“Yeah, I know it needs a new starter,” he said, even though Kent had refrained from commenting. He gunned it again, and this time it caught. “But I’m a little short on cash at the moment.”

“Well, get it fixed before we need to chase down any criminals. Skip would tear us a new one if we didn’t get to a scene quick enough thanks to your dodgy engine.”

“Nothing wrong with _my_ engine.” Mansell leered. “Erica said just this morning that—”

“Ugh, no, no.” Kent gave him a shove, Mansell laughing. “Did I not make it clear that I never want to hear anything about that? Ever?”

“All right, all right.” Mansell pushed down the accelerator as they pulled onto the highway. “But speaking of Erica—on a completely different subject!—I need your help with something.”

“What?” he asked, all his prejudices about Mansell rushing back. If he was planning to break up with Erica and wanted Kent’s help in breaking the news…

But Mansell’s next words allayed his fears. “It’s her birthday in about two weeks, right?”

“Yes. Given that it’s my birthday, too, I’d hardly forget it, would I?”

“Oh, right.” Mansell paused, as though he hadn’t quite comprehended all the implications of the word “twin.” “Anyway,” he continued, “I want to do something special for her, and I was thinking of throwing a bit of a surprise party. Nothing big, just a few friends. But I need somewhere to keep things so she doesn’t get suspicious.” 

“‘Somewhere’ meaning my flat?”

“Yep. And if you have any suggestions—you know, what kind of cake she would like, that sort of thing, I’d be grateful.”

Much of his animosity towards Mansell had been dissipating, the more he saw of how much Mansell really did seem to care for Erica, and Mansell’s earnest, hopeful tone now made Kent’s heart thaw a little bit more. 

“I can help,” he agreed. “The main thing is, don’t put the number thirty-two on anything. Erica likes to pretend she’s still twenty-five. She didn’t even call to wish _me_ a happy birthday the year we turned thirty—wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Noted. Although she doesn’t need to worry; she still looks twenty-five,” Mansell said loyally. 

“And get chocolate cake.” He looked out the window, smiling a little as he thought of how their mother had always made a cake split evenly down the middle, half chocolate, half vanilla because Kent preferred the latter and Erica the former. He even told Mansell about it, and Mansell told him about how his mother had hated baking, and so she always bought him a chocolate caterpillar cake, year after year, well into his teens. 

*

The neighbors hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Back at the station, Riley had an equally discouraging report from Ira’s employers. Nothing strange, no ideas about who might have wanted Ira dead. Kent looked at a map, tracing the distance between Ira’s flat and the warehouse where he had worked, approximately a mile. He had last been seen at the warehouse on Thursday night, a week before his murder, the night before Lisa noticed his absence. 

“If he took the shortest route, he would have gone right through the park where his body was found,” Kent said. Riley made a noise of polite interest. But there was no CCTV footage for the park, and a mile was a long distance. He could have been snatched at any point along it. 

Giving up on the map, Kent sank down into his chair with a sigh. He hated dead ends. If only they could avoid another case like the Abrahamians, with more and more bodies appearing, promising suspects and theories crumbling in the face of contrary evidence, and the whole team feeling the stress as the days passed. Of course, Iver had been behind many of their problems, at least at the station. He thought of the wooden figure again. What if she had wanted them to bring it here? What if it _was_ some unholy relic, steeped in evil?

_Don’t be stupid,_ he told himself. _You’re starting to actually sound like Aunt Jeni._

The arrival of Chandler, Miles at his side, jerked Kent from his thoughts, and he sat up straighter, grabbing a sheet of paper in an attempt to look like he had been busy thinking about the case and not idly speculating about evil spirits.

“Well, we talked to Cora,” Miles announced, sounding tired. “She says Danny is right—that Ira didn’t have any feelings for her, nor she for him.” 

“You believe her?” Mansell asked.

“Hard to tell,” Chandler replied. He went over to the whiteboard and started making notations, and the rest of them settled into the dull monotony that comprised the bulk of police work. 

Chandler had just finished listing the forensic evidence alongside Ira’s picture when Ed arrived, stack of folders in hand. He cleared his throat noisily.

Chandler raised an inquiring eyebrow. “What have you got, Ed?”

“Dark ritual and sacrifice,” Ed replied. He flipped open one of the files. “West Virginia, 1962. A murder committed by a Satanic cult in which the victim’s tongue was cut out and the flesh flayed off his back.” He opened another file. “Italy, 1984. Two young girls murdered, their ears removed and their eyes put out. The killer, once apprehended, claimed it was part of a ritual to appease a, quote, ‘black spirit,’ that visited him in the night.” 

“You think there’s a connection because Ira’s tongue and ears were cut off?” Kent asked.

“I think it’s a possibility.”

Chandler frowned. “It’s a very tenuous connection, Ed. There have been countless murders where the victim was mutilated, for a host of reasons.” He paused and then added, “Did what we found at Iver’s flat put this in your head?”

Ed took off his glasses, earnest appeal written on his face. “And what if it did? If Iver is behind this murder, too, then there may well be a connection.” 

“No.” Chandler shook his head. “There is absolutely no evidence that she is involved in this.”

Although the memory of the wooden figure rose in his mind once again, Kent took Chandler’s side. “On Friday, you said that there wasn’t enough evidence for you to start forming theories,” he reminded Ed. “We haven’t discovered anything else since then.”

“Precisely why we need to begin venturing tentatively into the realm of possibility.” Ed turned back to Chandler. “Joe, the severed ears and tongue are the most distinctive thing about this murder. These precedents and what we found in Iver’s flat give us a place to start from at the very least.”

Riley spoke up. “We’re not likely to get much farther with the girlfriend or Danny absent new evidence. We could try this angle, see where it leads.”

Chandler looked unhappy, but he nodded slowly. “All right. But don’t pursue this to the exclusion of everything else. I don’t want a repeat of the Washington case where we were led astray by the whole witchcraft theory. Kent—I want you and Mansell to stick with Ira’s friends and associates. Riley, you can see if there’s any evidence for rituals or the occult.”

Kent hesitated a moment after Chandler had gone to his desk, but then went after him. 

“Sir,” he said, and Chandler looked up from arranging his phone, stapler, and watch just so. 

“Yes?”

“Earlier, when I was in the evidence room, I noticed that the box with the things we’d taken from Iver’s flat was half-open and on the floor.”

“Probably another officer moved it and forgot to put it back.”

“Yes, sir, but…” Kent hesitated, knowing that it was silly to be worried, and yet he couldn’t help but think of those awful weeks, when they’d been at each other’s throats and Chandler had been slowly falling apart. If there was any chance that Iver was trying to work her mischief again, he couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen. “I don’t think we should keep it here. We could move it to the central facility.”

“Whatever for?” 

“I just…I get this horrible feeling whenever I see those things that were on the altar. What if Iver plans to do something with them, here, in the station? What if it’s all been a plot to get them in here, close to us?”

The disappointment on Chandler’s face was infinitely worse than anger. “I never expected you to give in to superstition, Kent.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he muttered, wretched. “But after what happened last time…”

Chandler took out the Tiger Balm, unscrewing the cap and dipping his fingers into it. “We may be surrounded by strange, terrible things. But we will _not_ lose our reason to them. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Kent retreated back to his desk. He seemed doomed to never live up to Chandler’s ideal, always making mistakes. Cast down, he put his fingers on his computer keys, hardly seeing the information on his screen.

“Don’t take it so hard.”

It was Miles, leaning over his desk. Kent blinked up at him. “Skip?”

“When he barks at you—don’t take it so hard. I’ve given you worse, haven’t I?”

“But you’re not…him,” Kent finished lamely.

“Look,” Miles said, “There’s reasons why he’s taking all this supernatural mumbo jumbo so badly. It’s not my place to tell, but don’t let it get you down.”

He nodded, feeling slightly better, although twice as curious about what could have upset Chandler so much. “Are you sure you still think it’s all nonsense?” he asked Miles.

“The hell if I know anymore,” Miles replied grumpily and returned to his desk.

The end of the day saw Kent and Chandler the only ones left in the incident room. Kent had hung back on purpose, and now he brewed two cups of tea, taking them to Chandler’s office.

“Would you like some—” He hesitated, unsure, and then said tentatively, “Would you like some, Joe?”

“Oh.” Chandler blinked at the cups, as though tea were something new and strange to his existence. “Yes, thank you.” He didn’t object to Kent’s use of his first name.

Kent handed him one. “Do you mind if I…?” He gestured at the empty chair across the desk from Chandler.

“No, no, go ahead.” Chandler glanced at his watch. “It’s past time for you to clock out, though.” 

Kent shrugged. “Sometimes it’s nice to have it a bit quieter. Helps me think.”

Chandler made an agreeing noise over the rim of his cup. “What are your thoughts?”

“I’ve been wondering about the way the killer left Ira’s body,” Kent replied, pleased that Chandler wanted to know his opinion. “The way his arms were folded so neatly, that blanket tucked around him. I can’t make it fit with the mutilation. Why cut out his tongue and slice off his ears and then be so…tender in arranging the body?”

“It does seem strange.” Chandler sighed into his tea. “Perhaps two different people? Maybe the person who dumped the body wasn’t the one who killed him. Maybe there was a bit of compassion there.”

“Maybe.” Kent couldn’t come up with a better alternative, even after spending the last forty minutes pondering the photograph. 

“I still think the drummer—Danny—is a possibility,” Chandler said. “There was definitely resentment there, and whatever he and Cora may have said, there’s a good chance that she was harboring feelings for Ira, and Danny wanted to eliminate the competition.”

“Not enough to get a warrant to search his flat, though,” Kent concluded gloomily.

“No. Not enough.” Chandler sipped his tea for a while in silence. “Miles told me your aunt is a psychic,” he said abruptly.

“Um, yes.” Kent cleared his throat. “About earlier—I do know I was being ridiculous. Sometimes things just get to you, all the terrible things we see, and—”

Chandler cut him off. “I understand that. And that’s not what I was talking about. I wondered if your aunt—that is, do you believe in her? Do you think she really can sense and know things—impossible things?”

Kent shifted in his chair. Aunt Jeni was always a difficult subject. His Mum refused to invite her to Christmas dinners anymore after she wouldn’t stop talking to Kent’s dead grandfather over the turkey and roast potatoes. “I’ve seen her do some strange things,” he said at last. “Things that _I_ couldn’t explain.” 

Chandler didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said quietly, “How do you handle that? Being unable to explain something? Believing it to be beyond the realm of human knowledge or control?”

Kent considered and finally had to admit, “I suppose I just don’t think about it much. Except when…” He faltered and looked up to meet Chandler’s eyes.

“Except when you have no choice,” Chandler finished, and he nodded.

“I can’t imagine myself doing anything else besides police work,” Kent confessed. “But lately…” He stared into the small bit of amber-colored tea left in his cup. “The Krays and the Ripper were different. That was just violence. Sick and frightening but not—not paranormal. But if Skip’s right and Iver’s been behind all of it…”

Chandler set his cup down and carefully placed his fingers along the edge of his desk, pressing down so hard that the tendons stood out in his hands. “During the last case, Miles convinced me to bring in a psychic to try and find the missing girl. And she…” He stopped and fell silent.

“Joe?”

Chandler let his hands fall from the desk. “It’s late. You should go home.”

He stood slowly, knowing that Chandler had been going to say something else, but not wanting to press. “Shall we clean up a bit first?” He reached down for a bin.

They made the rounds, throwing away rubbish and turning out lights, making sure the chairs were rolled underneath the desk. Kent was collecting his jacket when Chandler put a hand on his arm.

“Thank you.” 

Kent had to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I just want it to be easier for you.” He felt himself flush and clutched his jacket closer. “I don’t want you to have to take on everything yourself.”

The warm pressure of Chandler’s hand squeezed tighter for a moment, and then he let it fall away.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the week brought no progress on the case. They interviewed Danny again, but he stuck by his story. Riley did find some Satanists in the area, but reported that they seemed insulted at the mere suggestion they would undertake a ritualistic sacrifice, explaining they did not view Satan as a real being but rather a representation of individualism and a symbol of human nature. 

The following Monday found Kent re-checking all of Ira’s mobile phone records, on the off chance they had missed something the first time around. He was leaning over his computer when something hit him in the head. Frowning, he looked down to find a crumpled piece of paper lying there.

“You can just say my name to get my attention, you know,” he complained, turning to face Mansell, who was waiting expectantly, a grin on his face.

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”

Kent sighed. “What do you want?”

“We’re still on for next Wednesday, right?”

“Yes—six o’clock sharp, before Erica gets back from her yoga class so we’ll have plenty of time to decorate the flat.” 

Mansell had been pestering him constantly about the details for Erica’s surprise birthday party. Kent wasn’t sure he would ever get over the shock of discussing appropriate napkin patterns with Mansell while standing in an aisle in Tesco’s. Said napkins, along with balloons, streamers, and candles now resided in Kent’s flat. 

“Okay, next question.” Mansell handed his phone to Kent. “Which will she like better?”

The screen showed two photos of bracelets—one sterling silver engraved with flowers, the other also silver but with a garnet set in the middle. 

“Are you picking out rings already?” Riley asked, stopping and glancing over Kent’s shoulder as she passed by. “And who are they for—you and Erica, Finlay, or Emerson and Chandler?”

Both Kent and Mansell blushed. 

“It’s just a birthday present,” Mansell muttered, “and it’s bracelets, not rings.”

“Still—when are you going to ask her? By this time with Eva you were already on your honeymoon.”

“I’m not going to mess up this time,” Mansell replied. He shot Kent a nervous look. “Besides, Erica told me that she’d be the one doing the asking, and that it wouldn’t be until she was good and ready.” 

“Sensible woman,” Riley said approvingly.

Kent, appeased with this proof that Erica could look after herself, felt magnanimous enough to tell Mansell, “Erica might take a long time to make up her mind, but just remember, once it’s made up, she won’t change it.”

“Don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse,” Mansell muttered. “And the bracelet?”

“Why do you think I know what kind of jewelry she likes? You’re the one living with her.”

“Yeah, but you’re twins,” Mansell said, as though that should automatically grant Kent omniscience when it came to Erica’s fashion choices.

“Get the one with the garnet,” Riley decided.

“Yes, that one,” Kent agreed and gave Mansell’s chair a shove with his foot. “Now get back to work.”

He had just returned to the mobile phone records when an alert pinged on his phone for an urgent bulletin. He opened the email and felt his stomach drop. 

“Skip?” he called, “I think the boss should take a look at this.”

Miles stood up, coming over to see, and Kent turned back to his screen and the missing person alert that filled it. His name was James Sturgis, twenty-one years old, missing since Sunday morning. And he could have been Ira Lamberson’s twin. 

*

“Right.” Chandler stood at the front of the room, surveying the gathered detectives. “The good news is that the killer kept Ira alive for almost a week before murdering him. That means there’s still a chance that we can find James Sturgis alive. Of course, we don’t know for sure that they were taken by the same person. But I agree with Kent—the physical similarities in appearance are too great for this to be a coincidence.”

Chandler nodded at him in acknowledgement, and Kent tried to contain his smile at this show of approval.

“Sturgis lives with a friend, Duncan Petersen,” Chandler continued, “and attends City University. Unlike most students, Sturgis is an early riser. Almost every Sunday, he goes to get coffee and a bagel at a shop near his flat. Yesterday, Sturgis left the flat as usual, but he never came back. Petersen woke up two hours later and discovered Sturgis’s phone and wallet still in the flat—he’d only taken his keys and some cash with him. When Sturgis didn’t return, Petersen got worried and started calling Sturgis’s friends and finally contacted the police. The bagel shop clerk didn’t recall seeing Sturgis that morning, so he was taken somewhere between his flat and the shop.” Chandler turned and circled the area on the map.

If there had been a star on the map, the warehouse that Ira worked at would have formed the bottom right point while Sturgis’s flat would have been the left point, parallel to the center. In the center were Ira’s flat and the bagel shop, an area of overlap. Kent mentioned this, adding, “It seems like that’s the most likely place for the killer to have spotted both of them.” 

“Was there any contact between Ira and Sturgis?” Riley asked.

“The friend, Petersen, had never heard of Ira, and he doesn’t show up in Sturgis’s phone, but we’ll have to look further than that,” Chandler replied. “Why don’t you start drawing up a list of contacts, Riley. Mansell, take the CCTV footage. Kent, you and Miles come with me and we’ll begin canvassing the neighborhood near Sturgis’s flat and the shop. Perhaps someone noticed him yesterday.”

“Tough luck,” Kent said in an undertone to Mansell as they went out. Almost anything was preferable to scanning hours of CCTV footage.

“Ah, shove off,” Mansell grumbled back. “I’ll order myself a pizza, get some beer, make a party of it.”

“One whiff of alcohol and you’ll regret it,” Miles said sternly, whacking Mansell on the head and grabbing Kent’s elbow. “Come on, let’s not stand around chatting all day.”

They started with the neighbors. A middle-aged lady answered Kent’s first door, and she smiled benignly at him. 

“Do you know this man?” Kent asked her, holding up a picture of Sturgis.

“Of course. James is such a dear—always says hello when he’s walking by. Are you related to him?” she asked. “You look so much alike.”

“No, my name is DC Kent. I’m afraid James has gone missing—any chance you remember seeing him yesterday morning, around six-thirty?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t get up until half past eight. Oh, I do hope he’s all right.”

Kent lied and said he was sure Sturgis would be fine, thanked her, and then moved on to the next door. 

“No luck,” he said twenty minutes later, reconvening with Miles and Chandler at the end of a block. 

“Chap in number twenty-four remembers seeing him,” Miles reported, “but he doesn’t think anybody else was hanging around. He was out watering his garden.” 

They tried a cafe next that served breakfast and would have been open at that hour. 

“I might have seen him,” one of the waitresses said, studying the picture. “I was out by the side door, having a smoke. But it’s hard to say. Lots of people go by here, even that early—dog walkers, joggers—there’s a park just over there.”

The park proved to be much nicer than the one where Ira’s body had been found. It boasted an actual fountain, tended flowerbeds, and an expanse of green grass. 

“It’s hard to imagine him getting snatched from along here,” Chandler said, gesturing at the street and its surroundings. “It wasn’t the middle of the night, and even if the street wasn’t busy, there were certainly people about. Someone should have noticed something.”

Chandler’s mobile rang as they were walking back along the stretch that had most of the shops. “It’s Mansell,” he announced. “He’s had a piece of luck and found something on the CCTV. Yes, yes, we can see Ashby Avenue from here.” Gesturing for Kent and Miles to follow, he headed back towards Sturgis’s flat. “Mansell found some video that shows Sturgis walking past Ashby. But he never shows up on a camera that looks down Marshall Street, which is just two streets on.”

“So he had to have been taken in here.” Miles gestured at the strip of land in question. It possessed several houses, a news shop, and a narrow but tall block of flats. They walked slowly along the street, hunting for any kind of clue.

“What about this?” Chandler said, stopping in front of an iron railing that enclosed a tiny yard by one of the houses. A rickety wooden shed leaned against the house. “That shed could have offered cover. And look—I think this yard has another gate in the back.”

Kent peered over the fence, standing on his toes. “And there’s a bit of an alley. It opens onto another street.”

“So he could have grabbed Sturgis, hauled him into that shed and trussed him up, then exited out the back to a waiting car in the alley,” Miles said. 

“Did anyone talk to the owners of this house?” Chandler asked.

“I tried to, sir,” Kent replied, “but no one was at home.”

They knocked on the door again and rang the bell, but no one answered. Chandler grimaced and then levered himself up and over the railing so he could take a closer look at the shed. Kent followed, and Miles said he would meet them at the back through the alley. 

“The door is round on this side,” Chandler said, “and the lock’s been broken.”

Kent ducked into the shed after him. It was filled with an assortment of flower pots, empty oil cans, and various broken bits of furniture. Two of the pots had been smashed on the ground, although that could have happened at any time and didn’t necessarily signal a struggle. 

Crouching, Kent flashed his phone screen onto the ground in lieu of a flashlight. “Look at this, sir.” There was a small pile of shattered plastic, half-ground into the dirt. “I think there’s numbers on some of the pieces…” He squinted. “Maybe a needle, with the measurements on the cylinder?”

“Could be. If the killer drugged Sturgis, that would have made him easier to transport. We’ll get the lab to analyze it, and I want forensics to go over this entire shed.”

They met Miles at the alleyway. “I called Mansell, told him to check footage for this street out here,” Miles reported. “But I doubt he’ll find anything. It’s all residential.” 

Back at the station, a quick search located the owners of the house and a few calls revealed that they were on holiday and had been gone since the previous Monday. 

“Everything we’ve found suggests that this was well planned,” Chandler said, staring at the whiteboard. “This wasn’t some random attack. The killer knew the house would be empty, he had scoped out the shed, and he knew Sturgis’s habits. He was waiting for him that morning. Which means that he had been watching for a while.”

“And he has a definite type,” Riley added. “Ira and Sturgis look very similar.” She glanced at Kent. “And a lot like you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kent said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You mentioned it.”

“How would the killer have found Ira and Sturgis in the first place?” Chandler mused. “There must be some connection.”

“Location.” Kent gestured at the map. “There’s overlap between the places they frequented.” 

“Maybe the killer works in that area,” Mansell offered. “A café or pub both of them would have gone to?”

“We know where Sturgis was taken from.” Chandler’s mouth settled into a determined line as he looked at his picture. Sturgis was smiling, wearing a sweatshirt with his college name and logo on it. “We have the pieces. We just need to fit them together. He might still be alive. We could still find him—and the killer.”

*

But three days came and went, and by Thursday night, they were no closer to putting together the puzzle. 

Kent stared at his notes, the words blurring together. Rubbing his eyes, he gulped at his coffee, gone cold long ago. He hadn’t had any sleep since Tuesday, and not much then. Time was running out for Sturgis.

The analysis on the needle fragments had come back. It had contained traces of ketamine, which would have made Sturgis sleepy and weak if it didn’t knock him out entirely. Chandler had suggested that perhaps the killer worked in a hospital, pharmacy, or for a veterinarian. But that didn’t do anything to narrow down suspects because they didn’t have any in the first place. What they needed to find was the common connection between Ira and Sturgis, the link that allowed the killer to notice both of them.

But there was nothing tying them together. No common friends or associates. They had gone to different schools, and they came from different places. Lisa had come up with a list of pubs in the vicinity that Ira had frequented, and Sturgis’s roommate had mentioned one of the same pubs as a place he and Sturgis had gone to a few times. So they had been interviewing employees and patrons, but so far had turned up nothing. Kent suspected that Chandler had gone through an entire container of Tiger Balm and at least ten shirts. 

Miles’s voice drifted out of Chandler’s office. “We have to take a few hours off. Mansell’s half-asleep and Kent not much better. And you’re not looking too sharp, either. We can work better after a rest.”

Chandler must have agreed because Miles came out a few minutes later and told them to get packing. Kent had already stumbled into the car park, visions of his bed dancing before his eyes, when he realized he’d forgotten his phone. Groaning, he dragged himself back up the stairs and then almost ran into Chandler, who was just exiting the incident room.

“Forgot my phone, sir,” Kent explained.

“Of course.” Chandler stood aside, but he remained standing there, watching Kent as he went to his desk and grabbed his mobile. 

“Was there something else, sir?” he asked, steeling himself to the prospect of staying awake another few hours.

“No. I only wondered if…” Chandler hesitated. “If you might like to grab a bite to eat,” he finished. “I know we’re all exhausted, but I’m also starving, and—”

“I’d love to,” Kent said quickly, hardly daring to believe his ears. 

“Good. Good,” Chandler repeated, smoothing down his jacket. “We could eat back at my flat? I—I don’t quite feel up to a restaurant.”

“Perfect,” Kent managed, suddenly much more awake than he would have imagined possible a few minutes ago.

It didn’t keep him from dozing off in Chandler’s car, though. A gentle shake woke him some indefinite amount of time later, and he jolted upright to find Chandler smiling at him. “We’re here. Although if you’d rather just go home and sleep…”

“No.” Kent scrubbed at this face. “I feel better. And if I don’t eat something, I’ll likely pass out. God knows where Mansell picked up that takeaway this afternoon, but it looked horrid. I couldn’t stomach the thought of it.”

“It was quite greasy,” Chandler agreed. “You should try these protein bars I discovered—organic ingredients, and surprisingly appetizing.”

“I’ve been making protein shakes in the morning.” Kent scrambled after Chandler who was striding quickly into the building. “With wheatgrass.”

“I like that myself. In fact, I should buy some more.” Chandler paused, key in the lock. “These last few weeks, I haven’t—well, I haven’t been in my usual form,” he admitted and then shoved open the door before Kent could reply. 

Chandler’s flat was much like Kent had imagined it to be—sterile and sparsely decorated. It was also clearly expensive, and the kitchen, which Kent could glimpse through the hallway, was an expanse of gleaming stainless steel. No particle of grease would have dared remain there for long. They both removed their shoes in the entryway, and Kent unbuttoned his jacket.

“I’ll just change,” Chandler said, gesturing vaguely down the hall. He hesitated again, glancing between Kent and the living room, looking nervous and confused, as though he wasn’t sure where Kent would fit in the perfectly ordered rooms with their furniture arranged exactly so. Kent wondered when Chandler had last had a visitor and decided to help by edging towards the kitchen. 

“Do you mind if I grab a glass of water?”

“No, please, make yourself at home.” Chandler trailed after him. “But take the glass from the left hand cabinet, not the right.”

“This one?”

“Yes.” Another hesitation. “And if you would use a coaster…?”

“Of course. I always use them myself.” Kent smiled. “Where are they?”

“In the drawer right by the sink.” Chandler cleared his throat. “I’ll just…be right back.”

He escaped down the hall, and Kent found a towel to wipe away the smudge he had accidentally left on the refrigerator’s gleaming door. Then he took off his own jacket and tie, draping them carefully over the sofa. He sat down, sipping his water.

Chandler reappeared shortly, his jumper just as soft and well-washed as Kent had envisioned. He wanted to pet his hand over it and feel Chandler’s warmth underneath. Or, even better, curl up on the sofa with Chandler’s arms around him, his cheek pressed to that soft fabric, and fall asleep, perhaps waking up to Chandler stroking his hair. 

“Kent?”

He realized that he was staring, open-mouthed, and stood up, trying not to flush. “Can I help with anything for dinner?”

“No, I should be fine. I wasn’t planning anything fancy,” Chandler said, apologetic. “Just some steamed vegetables and some chicken I had left over from the other night.”

“That would be lovely. Really,” he added when Chandler seemed unconvinced. “I will gladly eat anything that’s not takeaway or cold muesli.”

He fetched Kent a beer and poured himself a glass of scotch. Kent eyed it, worried. “Joe…”

“Just the one,” Chandler promised. He took a deep breath and then went to fill a pan with water. 

Kent could hear the strain in his voice, and he wanted to reassure him, but wasn’t sure how best to go about it. So instead he quietly set the table, searching through drawers for cutlery and plates. Chandler moved methodically around the kitchen, and Kent tried to divine his thoughts. They were either about the case or having a guest in his flat, judging by the frown line between his brows. 

Kent really was very hungry, and when Chandler placed two plates of chicken, vegetables, and rice onto the table, he had to do his best not to fall wolfishly upon his portion. 

“This is very good,” he said, swallowing a mouthful. “Thank you. I’d have been scrounging something from the freezer.”

“You’re welcome.” Chandler gave him a small smile and then dropped his eyes to his plate, cutting a piece of chicken with economical, deliberate movements. Clearing his throat, he said hesitantly, “What should I call you here? Off duty, I mean. I always call Miles by his last name, but I feel odd doing the same with you.”

“‘Emerson’ would be fine,” Kent replied, helpless to prevent the giddy lightness in his chest from spreading into a smile. “Or ‘Em.’ That’s what Erica calls me.”

“Emerson,” Chandler repeated. He laid down his knife and fork, clasping his hands together on the table. “I told you that during our last case, Miles and I called in a psychic to try and help us find the missing girl.”

Kent nodded. “I remember.”

He could see Chandler’s breathing quicken, shoulders rising faster with each breath. “This psychic—she told me she had a message for me from my father.” He opened his mouth to continue, and then shut it again.

Kent reached across the table and put his hand over Chandler’s. 

“I refused to listen to her, and so she gave a note to Miles,” Chandler continued at last. “I didn’t open it. I was going to throw it away, but…something held me back.” A laugh that was half a sob escaped him. “I opened it right after we had caught the Abrahamians. It said ‘Don’t put them all in the same van.’”

A chill crawled across Kent’s neck and down his arms. His fingers tightened on Chandler’s clasped hands.

Chandler was shaking his head. “How could she have known that? How could she have written something so specific unless…?”

“Have you gone back to her?” Kent asked after a moment, trying to wrap his head around this. It went beyond anything his Aunt Jeni had ever done, that was for sure.

“No.” Chandler pulled his hands away, sitting back in his chair, spine stiff and straight. “Now, though…if she could help us find Sturgis.” His eyes met Kent’s. “But I’m afraid, you see. I’m afraid of what else she might say.” 

“Then I’ll talk to her.”

“No,” Chandler said again. “This investigation is my responsibility. I haven’t let any of it stop me before. Not even when the Krays almost killed us. I’ll be damned if I let my dead father do it now.” He stood abruptly. “Excuse me.”

He disappeared down the hall, and after a few agonized seconds of uncertainty, Kent followed him. He could hear water running in the bathroom, and he leaned against the closed door. 

“Joe?” He knocked softly.

There was no reply, but when he tried the handle, it opened. As he suspected, Chandler was standing at the sink, washing his hands, over and over.

Chandler didn’t say anything, but he didn’t stop Kent from coming to stand beside him, either. The hot water was turning his hands red.

“Here,” Kent said softly, turning on the cold water tap. “Can I…?” He caught Chandler’s hands in his own, prying away the bar of soap. He soaped up his own hands and then worked the lather over Chandler’s fingers, one hand at a time, before guiding them under the water. Chandler let him, his breathing slowing down and some of the stiffness easing from his shoulders.

“There.” Kent turned off the taps and handed Chandler a towel, taking another to dry his own hands.

“Your sleeves are wet,” Chandler said, his voice hoarse.

“They’ll dry.” Kent rolled them up over his wrists. “I don’t mind.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t blame you for being afraid. It scares me, too.”

“But I can’t let it get in the way of a person’s life,” Chandler finished.

“No.” Kent looked up at him. “Maybe your dad will have some more helpful advice.”

A small huff of laughter, followed by a sigh. “Thank you—for listening. I couldn’t carry that around with me anymore.”

Kent nodded and then froze, for Chandler had put his palm against his face.

“This is going too far, Emerson,” he murmured and gave Kent a sad smile before turning away. “Especially in the middle of a case.”

It took Kent a few seconds to recover before he could follow, hope and disappointment sharp inside him. When he got back to the kitchen, Chandler was on the phone with Miles, asking him to get a hold of the psychic.

They finished eating in silence, and Kent’s eyes started slipping shut again. He struggled upright. “Sorry.”

“I’ll make up a bed on the couch. You can sleep here for a few hours.” Chandler stood up, collecting the empty plates. “I’m going back to the station. It’s late, but Miles thought he would be able to reach Jackie tonight still.” 

Too tired to protest, Kent sank gratefully onto the sofa, pulling the blanket Chandler provided over his shoulders. He was dimly aware of Chandler going out a while later, and then succumbed to a heavy sleep.

*

The ringing of his mobile woke him abruptly a few hours later. Disoriented, unsure at first where he was, he fumbled for it, blinking at the harsh light of the screen. It was just past midnight, and Miles was calling him.

“Yes, Skip?” he answered, clearing his throat. Chandler’s flat was dark around him and very quiet.

“Sturgis’s body just turned up,” Miles said, sounding grim. 

“Fuck.” Kent sagged back into the sofa. “Where?”

“At that park near his flat. Get down here as quick as you can.”

He rung off, and Kent sat up, fumbling for his shoes. Then he realized that he was stuck at Chandler’s, with no car or bike. “Fuck,” he said again. 

Well, there was nothing for it.

“I got the news,” Mansell said, picking up on the second ring. His voice was thick with sleep. “I’m getting dressed. Be there in a few.”

“I need a ride,” Kent said, steeling himself for what was coming.

“Bike finally give out on you?”

“No. I left it at the station.”

“Too tired to ride home, huh? No problem—I’ll be at your flat in about twenty minutes.”

“I’m not at my flat,” Kent admitted. “I’m at Chandler’s.”

Silence for about five seconds. And then—“All right!” Mansell exclaimed very loudly. Kent held the phone away from his ear. “Way to go, Emerson! I’m down twenty quid, though. I figured it would be at least three more months, but Riley—”

“We just had dinner,” Kent interrupted. “That’s all.” While not strictly true, he wasn’t about to give all the details to Mansell, of all people. “Try and extract your mind from the gutter for once.”

“Yeah, but dinner—for the boss that’s like foreplay,” Mansell enthused.

“Will you just shut up and get over here?” Kent snapped and hung up to the sound of Mansell’s laughter. 

He had to endure more ribbing in the car, whose engine continued to make unhappy rattling noises every time they passed thirty miles per hour. But at last they arrived at the park—the nice park, with the flowers and the fountain—and Kent was almost relieved to see the flashing red and blue lights and the yellow crime scene tape if it meant an escape from Mansell’s teasing. 

He immediately looked for Chandler. Ever since Miles had called, he’d been worried about what Chandler’s reaction had been to the news that they were once again too late. 

He found him standing by a patrol car, head bent against a brisk wind that was blowing from the northeast. “Sir? What’s the word?”

Chandler’s face was pale, and his eyes seem drained of color and life in the darkness. “It’s just like Ira Lamberson,” he said. “If I had only—”

He cut off as Miles came towards them. “Well, this is just lovely,” Miles grumbled, picking his way around a puddle left by a rainstorm earlier in the day. “Same bloody pattern as before—tongue and ears cut off, wrapped in a blanket, body arranged as neat as for a funeral. A couple found him on their way back from the pictures, taking a short cut through the park. Hard to miss him.” Miles gestured over his shoulder. “The killer put the body right in the middle of the path. Just right out in the open. And he must have done it not long ago, although the couple didn’t see anybody else.”

“The killer wanted the body to be found,” Kent said. “Both of the bodies.”

“And why?” Miles demanded. “There’s a difference between not trying to hide a body and deliberately putting it where no one could miss it. It was risky, too. The streets around here aren’t exactly deserted.” 

“Then we have a better chance of finding something,” Chandler said. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the blinking lights on the patrol car. “We’ve already attracted a crowd of onlookers.”

Indeed, behind the yellow tape was a cluster of people—residents from nearby who had seen the lights, individuals and couples out for a late dinner or movie.

“One of them could have seen something,” Kent agreed. “I’ll start—”

“Oy! You there! Stop!” Miles shouted suddenly and took off running towards the crowd. 

“Miles!” Chandler yelled and ran after him. Kent followed, scanning the crowd for whatever Miles had seen. 

Miles was shouldering his way roughly through the throng. He ran a short way down the street and then stopped, turning in a circle, frustration evident on his face.

“What is it?” Chandler demanded, drawing level with him.

“I saw her! Louise Iver—she was here.” Miles jogged the other way, craning his neck as he searched. “Right there in the crowd.”

“Are you sure?” Chandler said. Kent swallowed, skin crawling for the second time that night. He looked around, but he didn’t see anyone of Iver’s small, slight stature. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Miles retorted. “I’m not likely to forget her face.”

“No, but it’s very dark,” Chandler pointed out. “I’m not sure—”

“It was her. Sneaking around, interfering with this investigation.” Miles’s face twisted into a scowl. “We have to watch out for her.”

“All right,” Chandler relented, holding up his hand. “I’ll tell everyone to keep their eyes open. But solving this murder is the priority. Kent—start trying to locate witnesses. Miles, let’s see what Llewellyn has for us.”

Miles moved off, but Kent grabbed Chandler’s arm before he could leave. “Don’t blame yourself, sir” he said. “We did everything we could. The psychic might not have even been helpful.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” Chandler replied, and he gently pulled away.

Sighing, Kent fished his notebook out of his pocket and went to find Mansell. 

*

At three a.m., Kent and Mansell finally left the scene, and Mansell dropped Kent at his flat so he could take a shower and change his clothes before taking the tube into the station. Six a.m. found Kent at his desk, holding the biggest cup of coffee he could procure, listening to Chandler brief the team. Chandler somehow looked as neat and pressed as always, even though Kent knew he hadn’t got any sleep the night before. 

“We think that the killer must have dumped the body between eleven and midnight,” Chandler was saying. “There’s a good chance that we can find some evidence of his movements—going to a public place like that practically invites discovery.” He turned to Buchan, who was hovering in the background. “Ed, I think we’ve been pursuing the wrong angle. Instead of looking at how people were killed, I want you to search for precedents involving how the body was discovered. To my mind, that’s the most distinctive thing about this case—the obvious care taken in arranging the victim’s body, as though for burial, and the apparent determination that it should be discovered quickly.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Ed promised. “In fact, I seem to recall a case from the 1970s that may be germane.”

Miles cleared his throat. Chandler grimaced, but nodded. “It is possible that Louise Iver was spotted at the scene,” he said. “So I want everyone to be on the lookout for her. If you do see her, detain her and bring her in for questioning.”

Everyone broke off to their separate tasks. Riley paused at Kent’s desk. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” she said, grinning.

Kent groaned. “You should know better than to believe anything Mansell says.” He shot a glare at his partner who gave him an innocent look.

“But this is real progress, isn’t it?” Riley patted his shoulder. 

It _was_ progress. Kent knew he wasn’t mistaken about the look in Chandler’s eyes when he had touched his cheek and the desire and affection he had seen there. But Chandler’s words brought little comfort. This job and his position as DI meant everything to Chandler, and Kent was quite sure that Chandler would find the will to resist getting into a relationship to avoid jeopardizing their work and crossing the moral and professional boundaries he had put in place. The worst was that Kent admired him for it and felt somewhat guilty for continuing to push those boundaries. 

But he couldn’t just turn away now. Not when he knew that he really stood a chance and that it wasn’t all one-sided on his part. Besides, Chandler needed him, and Kent wanted to be the one that he confessed his fears to, who he cooked dinner for, who could help him in those moments when his obsessions took hold. And he needed Chandler. He needed his smile, and his touch, and his warm approval and pride. 

To hell with professional propriety. He wasn’t about to give up now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have plotted out the rest of the story, and it looks like there will be three more chapters to go, so the end is in sight! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me.


	6. Chapter 6

Ellen Hassler leaned into her boyfriend’s shoulder and turned teary eyes on Kent. “It was just such a shock,” she sobbed. “Of course, I couldn’t sleep at all, not after that.”

“I understand how terrible you must feel,” Kent replied. “I know you’ve already given your statement, but I just want to confirm a few details.”

“Of course we’ll cooperate, won’t we, David? But I’m afraid I can’t think of anything else to tell you.”

“We were paying more attention to each other than where we were going,” David agreed, kissing Ellen’s temple and patting her hand. 

“I almost _stepped_ on it!” Ellen wailed. “I almost stepped on a dead body!”

“Calm down, love, it’s okay,” David soothed.

Kent waited for Ellen’s latest bout of hysterics to fade. It was the third such episode since he’d arrived at their flat to interview them again about finding Sturgis’s body. 

“So you were walking through the park around 11:25?” he asked when Ellen seemed to have got herself under control.

“Yes.” She sniffed. “At least I think it was around then. The movie ended about ten minutes after eleven, and the park is about ten minutes from the theater.” 

“You said that the only person you remember seeing was going into the café across from the park entrance?”

Ellen nodded. “It was a woman—I remember thinking to myself that I liked her hat.”

“But there was nobody in the park?”

“No.”

“It was pretty dark, though,” David added. 

“What about cars? Did you notice any parked nearby?”

Ellen frowned. “Well, there were cars on the street, but there’s lots of houses all around the park. I don’t remember any right by the park gates.”

They talked for a while longer, but didn’t come up with anything much to add to their statement. Kent gave them his card in case they did remember something and then left, strapping on his bike helmet as he went. 

It was three o’clock by the time he made it back to the station, and he was about ready to call it quits for the day. His scant few hours of sleep on Chandler’s sofa felt like a lifetime ago. Only copious amounts of caffeine had kept him going this long.

In the incident room, he discovered Ed spreading an array of photocopies and photographs onto Miles’s desk. Miles was absent, or Kent doubted he would tolerate this appropriation of his territory.

“You’re just in time for our next history lesson,” Mansell said to him. “Ed’s dug up some stuff that might help.”

“Demons?” Kent asked, plopping into his chair. 

“No,” Ed replied. “At least, none but those that live within all of us. We all have darkness in our souls.”

“Better start appeasing Skip’s,” Mansell muttered as Chandler and Miles came through the door. Miles did indeed look most unhappy to find Ed usurping his desk. But Chandler spoke first.

“You have something?”

“I do.” Ed adjusted his glasses and looked down at the papers in his hands. “It was a case from 1973 that first suggested the pattern to me. A woman strangled her younger sister over an _affaire de coeur_. But she placed her sister’s corpse neatly in her bed, hair combed, wearing her best dress, hands folded on her breast.” Ed showed them the photo and then flipped to another one. “1982. A father shot his son in a drunken argument. When he regained his senses, he washed the blood from the body and arranged it on the sofa before committing suicide.” Ed picked up the last photo. “Finally, 1996, a case where the matron of a family poisoned one of her nieces who had gotten involved in a sex scandal. She arranged the corpse on the divan in the living room, even going so far as to place a bouquet of fresh flowers in her lifeless hands.”

“So it’s always a family member,” Riley said.

Ed nodded. “Yes. There is always deep feeling between the killer and the victim. In the last case, for example, the niece was her aunt’s favorite, though that did not save her in the end. Methods of murder and reasons differ, but the close attention to the body, the tender care in arranging it—that is present across all these cases.”

Kent drummed his pen against his knee. “But Ira and Sturgis weren’t related. So either we have two different killers, and the physical resemblance is just a coincidence, or else they’re stand-ins.” 

“For a family member that the killer _wants_ to murder,” Riley finished. 

“Or already has,” Miles said. “This might be him reliving the deed.”

“And Ira and Sturgis look like this family member.” Chandler nodded. “It makes sense. Excellent work, Ed.”

Ed tried to look modest. “I merely follow where the records lead me.”

Mansell tipped his chair backwards, catching his foot on his desk. “So where does that leave us?” 

“You didn’t turn up any recent cases with a victim that looked like either of ours?” Chandler asked Ed, who shook his head.

“No, but I’ve only been at it for a few hours. Unsolved murders are much more difficult to locate in the records due to a lack of key terms.” 

“Then keep looking for cases within the last few years that resemble ours,” Chandler ordered. “Riley, Kent, you help him. Mansell, why don’t you start going through the missing persons database. There’s a chance the body was never discovered.” 

Riley exchanged a rather desperate look with the rest of them. “Can we start on it tomorrow, sir? It’s getting late, and I’m about dead on my feet.”

“Of course,” Chandler relented, though not without a sigh for the physical limitations of his detectives. 

“That goes for you, too, Ed,” Riley said. “You’ve been down in that basement enough today as it is.” 

*

Kent made himself stop for groceries on his way home, mindful of the dire situation in his refrigerator. He was off tomorrow, unless an urgent call came through, and planned to have a lie in and watch one of the documentaries in his Netflix queue with a good supply of chocolate Hobnobs on hand. 

He suspected that Chandler never deviated from his regimen of protein shakes and other eminently healthful breakfast items. Kent didn’t have the willpower to completely forgo the sin of eating biscuits in bed on a Saturday morning and getting crumbs all over the sheets. If he ever found himself in bed with Chandler on a Saturday morning, he wagered that he might be able to coax him into eating a few biscuits, particularly if he promised to wash the sheets immediately afterward. 

Their bare feet would be tangled together, pajamas twisting around their ankles. Chandler would have an arm around his shoulder. Perhaps Chandler liked cooking shows. Certainly not nature documentaries—the thought of Chandler tramping about a forest or field somewhere was absurd. 

Kent came back from these musings to find himself still in the aisle at Tesco’s, clutching a packet of Hobnobs in his hand. Embarrassed, he quickly did the rest of the shopping and then headed home. 

Lillian had a friend over, and he escaped into his room after throwing together something for dinner. He contemplated the bags of decorations for Erica’s party as he ate. Mansell hadn’t invited anyone else from the station, as those weren’t really Erica’s friends, and Kent felt a slight pang of sadness that he’d be spending his birthday among strangers. Kent was clearly included on the “guest” side only. The party was for Erica and Erica alone, in Mansell’s mind. Not that Kent had ever expected any differently. This was Mansell, not exactly known for being considerate. 

The next morning he did indeed sleep late and spent the day catching up on things like bills and vacuuming and getting a gift certificate to an art supply store as his own present for Erica. He got back to the flat just as the sun was going down, the buildings already casting the street in shadow. He was unstrapping his helmet when he felt a prickle between his shoulder blades, as though someone was watching him.

Memories of being shoved into a wall, of a knife tearing into his skin rolled over him, and he whirled, heart racing. 

Nothing. The street was empty.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he scanned the area once more and then went inside. It had been worse right after the attack, but he still had these moments where a sudden fear of being surprised and set upon would seize him. 

And yet the next day the feeling of being watched grew on him. By Monday morning, as he left for work, he scanned the people in the vicinity suspiciously—a lady with a pushchair, a man walking down the street with a cup of coffee, a jogger in the distance. He told himself he was being stupid and work successfully pushed his paranoia from his mind, but when he came home that evening and stood in the dark street, it rushed over him again. The thought of turning his back on the wide expanse of shadowy pavement while he unlocked the door was suddenly too much to bear, and he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile.

Chandler answered on the third ring. “Kent? What is it?” 

“Sorry to call so late.” Kent paused, struggling with how much to tell him. “I just—I was out in the street and it’s very empty and dark and I…” He trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

But there was no censure in Chandler’s voice. “Are you close to home?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m just unlocking the door.”

“Are you inside now?”

“Almost. There. I’m in.” He locked the door again behind him. 

“And the flat looks all right? No signs of forced entry?”

“No.” Kent glanced around the familiar objects and then sighed. “Sorry,” he said again. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Chandler replied. “We’ve all felt that way.”

He nodded, even though Chandler couldn’t see it. “Are you still at the station?”

“For a bit longer, yes.”

“Don’t stay too late.” 

“I won’t.” A pause. “Good night, Emerson.”

“Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He imagined Chandler was smiling as he replied, “Bright and early.”

“As usual. Perhaps Mansell will make it in on time.”

“If that happens, we’ll know that witchcraft is involved,” Chandler replied, and Kent laughed, Chandler’s jokes rare enough to always be appreciated.

*

Kent did arrive early the next morning. In fact, he was the first in the incident room. He wasn’t quite paying attention as he turned on the lights and fished a new box of green tea out of his bag, putting it on the table that held the coffee, filters, other assorted tea varieties, and what appeared to be a box of sugar packets but that actually held Mansell’s clandestine supply of Mars bars. When questioned on why he was attempting to hide them from Chandler there instead of in his desk, Mansell had replied that this way, at least he had plausible deniability.

It wasn’t until he turned towards his desk that he saw it, sitting next to his computer screen. The fluorescent light banished every shadow, highlighting every torturous curve and twist visited upon the dry and cracking wood. 

It was the figure from the altar in Louise Iver’s flat. Kent took an involuntary step back, his bag slipping unheeded onto the floor. 

The wooden figure should have been safely locked up in a box down in the evidence room. How the hell had it got here? And why had it ended up on his desk? 

The sound of the door opening disturbed the visions of demons and dark rituals, replacing them with Chandler’s sober suit and neatly combed hair.

“Joe!” Kent exclaimed, and Chandler paused, startled. 

“Kent? What—?”

“It was sitting there,” Kent said, pointing and trying not to sound as frightened as he felt. “I just got here a minute ago. It should be in the evidence room, sir. What if Iver was here again?”

Chandler studied the piece of wood and frowned. He fished his gloves out of his pocket and walked over to Kent’s desk.

“Don’t touch it, sir,” Kent pleaded, following. 

“Why? It’s just a piece of wood.” Chandler picked it up, glancing at the base and then turning it in his hands. 

Kent watched unhappily. 

“Nothing else is disturbed or missing?” Chandler asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ll look.” Kent edged around him, eyeing the figure warily.

“Do you think Mansell might have put it here, as a joke?”

Kent was surprised at the sting of betrayal that the question inspired. But no—“He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t like those things we found any more than I did.”

“Well, I will ask him when he comes in.” Chandler hefted the figure. “For now, I’m going to speak to the duty sergeant and have this dusted for prints.” 

When he arrived, Mansell swore up and down that he hadn’t done it, and Kent believed him. But who had done it was uncertain. The station was by no means deserted during the night. Miles insisted on showing the duty sergeant the photo of Louise Iver, but the sergeant didn’t recall noticing anyone of that description. There were no prints on the figure. 

“I regret giving that camera back,” Miles said. “We should install a permanent one, given that our incident room seems to be a popular target these days.”

“Do you think there’s any significance in its being left on Emerson’s desk?” Riley asked, sounding worried. “With the victims in our current case looking so much like him—what if it’s a warning?”

“It was probably just a coincidence,” Kent said quickly, not wanting to entertain the notion. 

“Well, you be careful,” Riley said, patting his shoulder. “Just in case.”

Mansell made a few jokes about it and Miles gruffly repeated Riley’s concern. But it wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Chandler broached the subject. He called Kent into his office and fiddled with his Tiger Balm for a few seconds. At last he looked directly at Kent. “Will you be all right tonight?”

“Sir?” Kent asked, confused.

“It’s just that last night, you thought that someone might be following you. And now this—” Chandler waved his hand towards Kent’s desk. “Not that I think it’s necessarily a warning. I just…I want to be sure that your flat is safe.”

“I’ll be fine, sir.” He smiled and added, half-joking, “You can come over and make sure, if you like.”

But to his surprise, Chandler didn’t treat it as a joke. “I will,” he said, sounding quite serious.

And so, Kent found himself showing Chandler into his flat an hour or so later, agonizing privately over whether Lillian had left her dishes in the sink or washed them like she was supposed to.

The sink was clear, although the coffee table was a bit of a mess, strewn with books and papers. 

“So this is where you live,” Chandler announced, quite unnecessarily. 

“Yes.” Kent fidgeted for a moment, painfully conscious of the contrast between Chandler’s posh, immaculate flat and his own, which was a bit run down around the edges and filled with a mixture of second-hand furnishings and IKEA. “Would you like some tea?” he finally asked, once it appeared that Chandler wasn’t going to just look in the cupboards for stalkers and then leave.

“Please.” Chandler sat down at the kitchen table while Kent made the tea. “You have a flatmate?” he asked.

“Yes. Her name is Lillian. She works for a catering business, but I don’t think she’s back from work yet. I think they might have been doing a wedding reception tonight.”

Chandler accepted the mug Kent handed him with a nod of thanks. Kent sat down across from him, blowing on his tea to cool it. He had often dreamed of this moment, of Chandler in his flat, but wasn’t quite sure what to do now that the reality had arrived.

“We need to talk,” Chandler said abruptly, and Kent’s heart sank. Nothing good ever seemed to follow those words.

“Over the past few weeks,” Chandler began, eyes firmly glued on his mug, “we’ve been spending more time together.”

“As friends,” Kent interjected.

“Is it just that, though?” Chandler asked quietly, and he raised his eyes to meet Kent’s. 

“You said that was all we could ever be,” he muttered, sipping his tea but hardly tasting it.

“I know I did, but…” Chandler sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I never pictured myself with a man, you know, despite what Miles and others have thought. There was a boy or two in university, but I never pursued it. But now…”

Kent couldn’t find any words, could only sit there, trying to prevent the happiness from welling inside his heart, knowing it might only end up crushed into painful fragments.

“I picture myself with _you_ ,” Chandler finished. “I like being with you and talking with you and—and knowing you’re here.”

“I feel the same!” The words burst out, and he reached across the table, holding out his hand. “I know it must be obvious, but I love you. I’ve loved you for so long, Joe.”

Chandler didn’t take his hand and after a few seconds, Kent withdrew it, tears threatening in his eyes.

“You know that we can’t,” Chandler said, horribly gentle. 

“Why?” Kent demanded, refusing to look away despite the evidence of how this was affecting him.

“I’m in a position of power over you. It wouldn’t be right and too many things could go wrong.”

“Then I’ll resign or—or ask for a transfer.” He held Chandler’s gaze, desperate. “Anything. I’ll do anything to make this work.”

“Would you really give it all up? The career that you’ve dedicated your life to?” Chandler offered him a smile. “The work that you do so very well?”

“No,” Kent admitted after a moment. “I could never give it up. But a transfer…?”

“You really would, wouldn’t you?” Chandler shook his head, as though he couldn’t quite fathom someone caring enough for him to do that. “I’d hate to lose you from our team.”

“Then…then I would stay,” he made himself say, even though it hurt. “If it made you happier that way.”

Chandler sighed again. “It wouldn’t. I’m beginning to think there’s only one thing that will make me happy. But I have to think about _you_ here, Emerson. I’m a difficult man—a very particular man.”

It made him smile, hope stirring again. “But I don’t want just anyone, Joe. I want a _particular_ man, as you say.”

“Do you?” It made Chandler laugh a little, his expression brightening. “Do you really?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t stand sitting there, apart, and he stood up, Chandler echoing his movements. “We _can_ make this work, I promise.”

Chandler’s arms around him were everything that he had imagined. They held each other close, Kent resting his head on Chandler’s shoulder. 

“Will you give me some time?” Chandler whispered, his breath warm against Kent’s temple. “I have to get used to the idea of this and consider what we’ll do about work. And I can’t lose you in the middle of a case.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Chandler drew back, and Kent reluctantly let him go.

“We’ll only see each other at work,” Chandler persisted. “I don’t want there to be any question of impropriety on either of our records.”

It was so very like him that Kent couldn’t help but laugh, even if he was frustrated by coming so close, only to be put off yet again.

“What?” Chandler asked, puzzled.

“I love you,” Kent repeated, and Chandler smiled—really smiled, his face filled with a gentle, warm happiness. He reached out and pulled Kent close to him again.

“I would quickly lose all my resolve, if we spent many evenings like this,” he murmured.

“And what about when I’m no longer your DC?” 

Chandler kissed him, once on the mouth and then on his cheek and temple when Kent turned his head slightly. 

“You prefer it this way?” Chandler asked, kissing his forehead again and smoothing back his hair. “Instead of on your mouth?”

“Yes.” Kent looked up, worried. “Is that all right?”

Chandler nodded. A delicate trail of kisses across his brow followed. “There. See? I told you that I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started.” 

Kent slowly pushed him away, pressing a kiss of his own on Chandler’s jaw, just next to his ear. “You’d better go then. We can talk more tomorrow about a transfer.” 

“And call me right away, if you notice anyone or anything suspicious.”

He nodded, having forgotten his earlier fears completely. Indeed, when the door closed behind Chandler all he could do was sit down and smile and replay their conversation in his mind. He would hate to leave the team, of course, but if that’s what it took to ease Chandler’s worries, then he would do it.

*

By the next morning, he was regretting agreeing to see their current case through to its end because there was no telling how long it was going to take. But that very day they got their first real break, and if Kent had believed in a god, he would have taken it as proof of a divine being’s existence.

After sitting through hours of CCTV footage, Riley had spotted a Sixt moving van that turned onto the street by the park at 11:08 p.m. and didn’t appear at the next crossroads until 11:26. A trip that should only have taken a minute had taken eighteen. They got the plates and soon Kent and Mansell were at the agency’s rental office.

The agent looked up the van in their records. “Yes, it was rented just for that day and returned the following morning. The renter’s name was Seth Greaves. We have his driver’s license on file, but he paid cash.”

Mansell got on the phone with Riley, giving her the name and license number while Kent asked a few more questions.

“Do you remember Mr. Greaves at all?”

The agent frowned, thinking back. “I was working at the time of the rental,” he admitted. “But that was a busy day. Nothing unusual about him, that I would remember. Unfortunately, the security footage from that day would have already been taped over.” 

“Bad news,” Mansell said, coming back over. “Seth Greaves lives in Birmingham and reported his wallet and license stolen seven months ago. We’ll check, but there’s a good bet it isn’t him.”

“Can you give us any kind of description?” Kent pressed the agent. “He must have looked something like the photo on the driver’s license.”

“Yes,” the agent said slowly. “I think—no, I’m sure that he was wearing a blue cap with some kind of logo on it. Brown hair, probably in his thirties. Looked like he worked out.”

They asked him to come in and do a sketch with an artist. Forensics descended on the van in question, although it had been cleaned since the killer had rented it. 

“One of the times it would be good to have a company with crappy business practices,” Mansell said with a sigh. They went back to the station to report to Chandler. Riley joined them with word that she had talked to Seth Greaves over the phone. He had lost his wallet while on a trip to London, and although he couldn’t be positive, he thought it had happened at a pub in Whitechapel.

Kent exchanged a smile with Chandler as they left his office, wanting to linger, but mindful of Chandler’s wishes. 

“So, we’re all set for Erica’s party tonight, yeah?” Mansell asked as they went back to their desks. “I thought I might sneak out a little early, and I could pick up the decorations at your flat, if you don’t mind giving me the key.”

“All right,” Kent agreed, mindful that there had been a time not long ago when he would never have dreamed of voluntarily lending Mansell his key—nor of feeling sorry about no longer being partners. He would keep that to himself for a while yet, until he and Chandler could talk again and explore the options. 

“There’s a bakery just round the corner from our flat, and they’re doing the cake,” Mansell continued. “Erica doesn’t suspect a thing. In fact, she was a little pissed off at me this morning, I think because I didn’t mention anything about her birthday. She thinks I forgot it.”

“Good thing you didn’t. Erica can get quite sulky over things like that.”

“Suppose I should say happy birthday to you, too, huh?” Mansell nudged him. “How does it feel to be thirty-two?”

“Not bad,” Kent replied, smiling at the memory of the night before. “It’s shaping up to be a great year.” 

Mansell eyed him thoughtfully, but for once didn’t pry. 

At four-thirty, Mansell did sneak out, but a few minutes later he was back. “My fucking car won’t start,” he announced, tossing his keys disgustedly on the desk. “It figures that today of all days it would give out on me! Emerson, any chance of lending me your bike?”

“Leaving me to take public transport to your flat? Thanks.” Grimacing, he pulled the keys out of his jacket, already absent the flat key that he had given Mansell earlier. “Here. I have to finish up this report, but I can stop and get the cake on my way. You start decorating, otherwise we’ll run out of time. What’s the name of the bakery?”

Mansell told him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate!”

“And wear the bloody helmet,” Kent added, shoving it at him. “Erica won’t be best pleased if you end up smashed all over the pavement.”

Mansell grumbled a bit but put it on and hurried out. It took Kent longer than he had thought to finish the report, but at last he could turn out his lamp and log off his computer. Chandler and Miles were still out going over the forensics evidence from the van, and Riley had already gone home. 

A wearying succession of buses later, and Kent made it to Erica’s flat, cake in hand. When he tried the door, though, it was locked. 

“Dammit, Mansell,” he muttered and rang the bell. There was no answer.

He rang it again and knocked loudly for good measure. Still nothing. Kent checked his watch. Erica would be here in about half an hour, and her friends sooner than that. Where the hell was Mansell? Pulling out his mobile, he dialed his number.

The phone rang and rang, finally going over to voicemail. “Mansell, where are you?” Kent demanded. “I’m at your flat, and the door is locked.”

He hung up and then stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do. He tried calling Mansell again with the same result. At that juncture, two women appeared, dressed for a party and carrying presents. 

“You must be Erica’s twin,” one of them said, holding out her hand. “I’m Sarah.”

“Kent. It’s a pleasure. I’m awfully sorry, but her boyfriend was supposed to let us into the flat, and he hasn’t shown up yet. I’m just going to call around and see if I can find him.” She nodded, and Kent stepped a few feet away and dialed Riley. She hadn’t heard from him, nor had Miles when Kent called him. Miles must have just been getting home, judging from the sound of yelling kids in the background. 

The minutes ticked by and still Mansell did not appear. Kent was starting to get worried. Mansell wasn’t used to riding the bike—what if he had got into an accident? More of Erica’s friends appeared, and all of them were soon huddled around the cold doorstep. Kent called Chandler.

“Are you all right?” Chandler asked immediately.

“Yes, I’m fine, but I’m worried about Mansell.” Kent explained the situation. “Could you just run by my flat and see if he’s there?”

“Of course. And I’ll put in a call to check the latest accident reports.”

Erica arrived about five minutes later, looking very confused as she took in the scene. Kent pushed through her friends, who were all shouting “Happy Birthday,” to greet her.

“Em, what is all this?” she asked.

He sighed. “Mansell was planning a surprise party for you. But his car died when he was leaving work, and so he borrowed my bike instead. He was supposed to run by my flat to pick up the decorations and meet us all here, but he’s never showed.”

Erica drew in a quick breath. “Has he been in an accident, do you think?” 

“I don’t know. Chandler is going round to check on my flat. He should call in a little bit.”

Obviously worried, but trying to smile for her friends’ sake, Erica let them all into the flat. Kent’s mobile rang just as he was setting the cake out on the counter. 

“Joe?”

“Your bike is parked in front of your flat,” Chandler replied, “But the door is still locked and there’s no sign of Mansell.” 

“Where could he—” Kent began and then stopped, a sudden, sick certainty flooding him. “Oh, God, he’s been taken. The killer’s taken him, Joe. I wasn’t wrong about feeling like I was being followed. The killer’s been tracking my movements. He knew I usually go back to my flat after work, and he was waiting. But Mansell was wearing my helmet; he was riding my bike. The killer thought he was me. In the dark, he didn’t notice his mistake until it was too late.” 

A beat of silence. “I think you’re right. Call the others and get here as soon as you can,” Chandler ordered. 

Kent nodded, trying to steady his breathing. “Joe—what will happen when the killer takes that helmet off and realizes he’s got the wrong person?” 

“I don’t know,” Chandler replied, his voice grim, “but either way, we don’t have much time if we want to find Mansell still alive.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chandler stood in front of the assembled team in the incident room. Tension vibrated in the air, and everyone’s eyes kept sliding towards Mansell’s empty chair. Kent could still see Erica’s tear-stained face as he left her flat.

“Promise me you’ll find him, Em,” she had pleaded, trying to hold her voice steady.

“I promise,” he had vowed. “We will find Finlay, and he’ll be all right.”

If there was anyone who could see that promise fulfilled, it was Chandler, and Kent focused on him now as he began to speak.

“I know we are all very worried about Mansell. But we need to try and move past that so we can put our full effort into finding him.” Chandler gestured at the whiteboards, filled with all the facts and theories they had accumulated. “We have the answer somewhere here. We have a description of the killer and we know his pattern. We just need to put it all together.” He looked around the room once more and nodded. “Miles, see everyone to their assignment. Mansell is counting on us.”

Kent threaded his way through the desks, following Chandler as he went into his office. “Sir?” he called after him, and Chandler turned, waiting.

“Sir, I have to ask—have you considered asking that psychic, Jackie, for help? I know it’s difficult, but we don’t have much time. If there’s any chance that she could give us some place to start looking…”

Chandler shut his eyes and rubbed his fingers on his temples, heaving in a sharp breath. “Yes. Yes, of course we need to make use of any asset, however unreliable. I’ll have Miles put in the call.”

Thirty minutes later, Kent, Miles, and Chandler met Jackie in one of the interview rooms. She had obviously dressed hastily, and she looked tired, unsurprising as it was three in the morning. But she got right to the point. 

“Your detective is still alive,” she said. “But I’m afraid I can’t get much else—sounds of traffic and of water—but not a river, more like water running through pipes.”

“That could be anywhere in the city,” Chandler snapped. His entire posture screamed his uneasiness, and he kept rearranging the papers in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” Jackie sighed. “There’s a young man who keeps pushing everything else aside, demanding to be heard because he’s been in the dark for so long. And, of course, the older man who was present when we last met—”

“No.” Chandler cut her off. “I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want any _messages_. I—” He stood up. “Miles, finish up here. I’ll be in my office.”

Kent hesitated, but Miles motioned for him to follow Chandler. He caught up to him in the hallway at the top of the stairs. 

“Joe, are you all right?” he asked, putting a hand on Chandler’s arm.

Chandler stopped, standing stiff and tense. “How dare he?” he said softly after a moment. “How dare he abandon my mother and me only to come back _now_? All those years when she was so desperate and there was only silence, but now…” He fell silent and put his hand over his face.

Kent moved in front of him, putting his hands on his shoulders and leaning close, offering silent comfort. Chandler sighed after a moment and let his hand fall, resting his forehead against Kent’s. “What if we don’t find Mansell?”

“We will.” He put his hand against the back of Chandler’s neck and rubbed his thumb in a slow circle. “I’m not going to lose him just when we were finally starting to get along.”

It made Chandler smile, and he pressed a swift kiss to Kent’s cheek. “So much for our professional boundaries,” he said ruefully.

“We’ll address it later,” Kent promised as he drew away. “Let’s go take another look at the evidence. We’ll start from the beginning and go through everything again.”

*

An hour later, they were perched on Kent’s desk, staring at the whiteboards. Ed had joined them, explaining that he couldn’t stay down in the archives with Mansell missing. 

“There’s a good chance we’ve all seen the killer before,” Ed was saying as he studied the sketch of the man who had rented the van to dispose of Sturgis’s body. “He must have been observing the investigation at some point in order to get a look at Kent.”

“Perhaps,” Chandler agreed. “We interviewed so many by-standers and people in the vicinity of both parks where the bodies were found, though. Still, I agree that the killer may well have hung around the scene. He was obviously very concerned about the corpses being treated properly and risked discovery to be certain they would be found quickly.”

“Although Ira’s body wasn’t dumped in as public a place as Sturgis,” Kent pointed out. “That park was much more deserted. If it wasn’t for that jogger…” He trailed off, a surge of adrenaline racing through his veins. “Oh, God—the jogger—” He scrambled for his notebook, flipping through to find the page. 

“Kent?” Chandler asked, standing up. “Have you got something?”

“The very first bloody witness I interviewed,” Kent muttered. “Here—here it is. I remember now. He was so concerned about what was going to happen to the body, kept asking me if Ira would receive a decent burial. What if he didn’t actually discover the body, but put it there himself?”

“What’s his name?”

“Logan Foster. And he could fit the description from the rental van agency, although he must have cut his hair because it was longer than that when I interviewed him.” 

Chandler pointed at the map, “It would fit with the location connection. If Foster was out jogging early in the morning, he could have taken a route through both of those parks. He could have seen Ira coming home from his night shift at the warehouse and Sturgis going for his early morning bagel and coffee.” He clapped Kent on his shoulder. “Get on the computer and see if you can find anything about Foster’s family—a missing or dead brother or cousin, perhaps. If we’re right about his motives, then there’s a good chance that there’s an earlier murder.”

It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for. “Here, sir,” Kent said, swiveling the screen around. “Five years ago, Foster’s younger brother, Jamie, went missing. A body was never discovered and since he was over eighteen, it got written off as a probable runaway, even though his parents kept pressuring the detectives to do more.”

Miles and Riley had both joined them, and now Miles leaned over his chair, skimming the report. “Is there a picture?”

“Yes.” Kent clicked and an image of a thin young man with dark, curly hair appeared.

“It’s enough for a warrant,” Chandler decided. “Kent—you ride with Riley, and we’ll meet you at Foster’s with backup.” 

*

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of Foster before,” Kent said, staring at the wipers as they frantically swished back and forth over the windscreen. A steady rain was falling, turning the dawn grey and sodden. 

“You know you can’t second-guess yourself on this job,” Riley reminded him. “The important thing is that you did make the connection.”

“But what if we’re too late? Once Foster found out he had the wrong person, he might have just…” He fell silent. It seemed like bad luck to say it out loud.

Riley had no answer for that. They could only hope that they would find Mansell still alive. It hadn’t even been twelve hours since he had been taken. There was a good chance that he was all right. Kent was doing his best not to think of the cut-off tongues and ears. 

Foster’s house was a non-descript brick building, two stories with narrow steps leading up to the front door from the street. There were no lights on in any of the windows, and the curtains were shut. 

Kent leapt out of the car and joined Chandler as he ran up the steps. Chandler nodded at the armed officer with them, who proceeded to break in the front door. It opened with a crash, and they stumbled into a dark hallway. The armed officers who had been mobilized to clear the building moved past them. Kent could hear shouts of “clear” as they checked each room. He longed to rush after them but made himself stay still. Chandler paced impatiently next to him, and he could hear Miles shouting something on the radio outside. 

It seemed an eternity before an officer came towards them, gun lowered at his side. “The building is clear, sir. There’s no one here.”

Kent’s heart plummeted, heavy resignation taking its place. If Mansell wasn’t here…

“What? That’s impossible,” Chandler exclaimed. “I want everything checked again. Kent, you and Riley take the bottom floor. Miles—with me.” He ran up the stairs, and Kent hurried down the hallway. 

There was no point in trying to hide their presence anymore, and so they turned on the lights as they went. The kitchen—food in the fridge, an apple sitting on the counter, a day-old newspaper on the table. A living room that seemed to serve as an office, with a computer and desk along with an armchair, sofa, and television. A cramped bathroom, an uncapped tube of toothpaste on the sink and a tall wooden cabinet that held towels and other linens. A window above the shower looked out onto an alley on the side of the house. 

Riley met him back in the hallway, her face miserable as she shook her head. And when Chandler and Miles came down the stairs, they were equally dejected. 

“I want to go through everything,” Chandler said. “All his papers, every address we can find, anything that might give us a clue as to where he brings the victims.” 

The armed officers soon left, although Chandler kept a perimeter of uniformed police around the house, in case Foster made an appearance. 

Kent stood at the desk, shuffling through a stack of bills and financial statements. Foster seemed to do freelance accounting for several companies. The rain drummed on the window as he stared at a sheet of numbers, incomprehensible and meaningless. This would take hours to go through and ninety-nine percent of it would prove useless. They needed evidence of a storage shed or something in Foster’s name. Or better yet, Foster himself. 

He brushed his elbow against a stack of papers accidentally, and they all spilled to the floor. Cursing, he bent to gather them up, mounting frustration making his fingers shake. He bowed his head, pausing, taking a deep breath. They couldn’t panic. They could only be efficient and methodical, checking every detail.

Raising his head, Kent stared at the opposite wall. The bathroom was on the other side, and suddenly he recalled that tall wooden cabinet. He also recalled a place in the kitchen that looked as though it should have had a door opening onto a storage cupboard. There had even been the marks left by hinges that had once been nailed into the wall. 

Papers forgotten, he scrambled up and dashed into the bathroom. He ran his hands along the edge of the tall cabinet and the wall, then glanced at the floor. There were scuff marks there, as though the cabinet had been dragged over the linoleum. Grabbing the edge, he yanked on it, grunting as it slowly gave way and moved forwards. As it moved, the line of a door was revealed. 

A last desperate heave, and he pushed the cabinet far enough aside to squeeze in behind it. His fingers felt along the seam of the door and finally he located the catch. It slid back into the wall, and the light spilled into the small space that it revealed.

Mansell was sitting on the floor, face pale and a dark bruise on one side of his face, duct tape over his mouth. His wrists and ankles were also taped together. But he was alive and otherwise unharmed as far as Kent could tell. He blinked against the light and when he recognized Kent, made an aborted move to get up.

“Finlay, thank God,” Kent breathed, dropping to his knees. He took hold of the tape against his mouth and ripped it away in a swift movement.

Mansell coughed, breathing deeply. 

“Are you all right?” Kent asked, squeezing his shoulder.

Mansell nodded. “Don’t know what that bastard drugged me with,” he managed in a hoarse voice. He licked his dry lips and gave Kent a shaky smile. “Knew you and the boss would find me.”

“I’ll find a knife to cut that tape, and we’ll get an ambulance down here,” Kent said, starting to stand. 

He heard the sound of shoes hitting the tile of the shower a second before Mansell’s eyes widened. 

“Look out!” Mansell cried, but before Kent could turn, a body slammed into him and a piece of twisted cloth encircled his neck. Strong hands pulled it taut, cutting off his air.

Choking, Kent scrabbled at his neck trying to find a purchase in the material. He kicked backwards with his feet and heard a satisfying grunt of pain, but the pressure around his throat didn’t lessen. His assailant stumbled backwards, dragging him along. He was dimly aware of Mansell trying to come to his aid, but his vision was growing darker, spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

Then suddenly there was a shout and a thud and the cloth around his neck slackened. Kent fell to the floor, coughing and struggling to draw breath. 

When he finally managed to look up, he beheld Chandler standing over the unconscious form of Logan Foster, with what looked like the shattered remains of a wine bottle in his hand. Blood covered Foster’s face and stained the edge of the shower. 

“Emerson.” Chandler crouched, worried fingers tearing away the cloth and brushing gently against his bruised neck.

“I’m fine,” Kent wheezed. He motioned him away. “Go. Call for help.”

Chandler hesitated and then stood up, running from the room and yelling for Miles.

Kent looked from Mansell, who was slumped against the cabinet, breathing heavily, to Foster and the blood pooling under his skull. Letting his head thump back against the wall, Kent closed his eyes and prayed that yet another criminal hadn’t slipped from their grasp and into the arms of a welcoming death.


	8. Chapter 8

Foster had been rushed off to a hospital. Although Chandler had whacked him a good one with the wine bottle that he had snatched off the kitchen counter when he heard the commotion in the bathroom, more damage had been done when Foster smashed his head into the side of the shower as he fell. 

Mansell was also being taken to the hospital for a thorough screening, although he claimed that all he needed was some food—“as greasy as possible”—and he would be fine. Kent had asked Riley to call Erica and let her know that Finlay was safe. His own voice was still weak and hoarse, and livid bruises were blossoming along his neck. A paramedic had given him some oxygen and pain meds, but Kent had insisted he didn’t need to go to the hospital. 

When he emerged from Foster’s house, he found Miles yelling at the poor officer who had been stationed in the alley way. 

“That maniac was hanging around, just waiting for an opportunity to slip back into the house unnoticed,” Miles snapped. “And you gave it to him. What the hell were you thinking?”

The officer mumbled unhappily, “I’m sorry, sir. I was standing at my post when someone called out for help. It was a little old lady, across the street. She had slipped on the pavement. I just went to help her to her feet. I was only gone for a minute or two, sir.”

Miles had stiffened, and Kent felt a cold shiver work its way over his neck. 

“What did she look like?” Miles demanded. 

“Short, with white hair,” the officer replied, puzzled. “She was wearing a red hat.”

“Fuck,” Kent breathed, “it was her.”

Miles nodded. “Louise Iver, causing a distraction so Foster could slip in unnoticed.” 

When they told Chandler, his face hardened. “It could be harmless,” he said. “It might have just been an elderly woman who lost her step.” But he sounded unconvinced himself. 

“It was her.” Miles turned up the collar of his coat against the rain. “She set off Foster, just like all the others. And she made sure that he wouldn’t survive to tell about it.”

“You think that was her motive, then?” Kent asked, touching his throat.

“I think your death would have just been an added bonus,” Miles said.

“Foster isn’t dead yet,” Chandler reminded them, his voice sharp. “I want everyone back at the station. We’re bringing in Foster’s sister. She might be able to give us a better idea of his motives.”

*

Janice Fuller, neé Foster, was a tall, tired looking woman. “Logan always resented Jamie,” she said to Chandler, who was interviewing her with Miles while Kent and Riley listened outside. “Jamie was the youngest, and Logan was the eldest. Jamie was everyone’s pet, and he was very spoiled. He and Logan didn’t get along well at all. Jamie was always irritating him. But for all that, I think Logan loved him. If someone teased Jamie at school, Logan always came to his defense.” She stared down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. “I can’t—I can’t believe he would have hurt Jamie.”

“What do you think happened to Jamie?” Chandler asked. “When he disappeared?”

“He had been fighting with my parents a lot. To be honest, I always thought that he had just left town. He always wanted to travel. I suppose I imagined that he was off in South America or the States, living the dream.” She sighed. “I suppose that was foolish.”

“Just a bit,” Kent muttered, and Riley made a shushing motion with her hand.

“Of course, my parents were always pressuring Logan to help them with Jamie,” Janice continued. “They felt he looked up to him, and that Logan could get him to behave if they would just stop their silly quarrels. So I think Logan felt Jamie was his responsibility in many ways.”

“Resenting such a burden could lead to him turning his anger on its source,” Chandler suggested.

Tears welled in Janice’s eyes, and she wiped them away. “I just—and now you say that Logan’s murdered two people and tried to kill another. I—I just never thought…”

“You didn’t notice any changes in his behavior lately?”

She frowned, thinking. “He did seem more anxious and stressed the past few months. But I thought that was problems with work. His business wasn’t doing so well.” 

“I know this is difficult to hear,” Chandler said, “but with his two previous victims, your brother cut off their tongues and ears before killing them.”

“Oh!” She clapped her hands over her mouth, paling. “Oh, God. He always used to say that,” she paused, gulping a shaky breath, “that Jamie never listened and didn’t have any use for his ears. And sometimes when—when Jamie was bothering him, he would threaten to cut off his tongue. But that was just stupid! Everybody says things like that when they’re angry!” She turned pleading eyes on Chandler.

“And sometimes people carry them out,” Chandler said, standing up. “Thank you. We’ll let you know if we need anything else. You’re free to go to the hospital. Your brother is in surgery.”

They reconvened in the incident room. 

“I just heard from Mansell,” Miles said, tucking his mobile back in his pocket. “He’s fine, just a little dehydrated and banged up. He said that Foster attacked him as soon as he had stopped the bike, jabbing a needle in his neck. When he came to, he was tied up in that closet. Foster looked in on him once and said something to the effect that even though Mansell wasn’t his brother, he had been delivered into his hands and so must be in need of ‘correction.’”

“And Foster’s condition?” Chandler asked.

Miles shook his head. “Still no word.”

“It would be most unfortunate if another criminal were to slip from our grasp,” Ed mused, and then wilted in the glares that Miles, Kent, and Riley turned on him. “Not that it is anyone’s fault!” he added hastily. 

“It’s Louise Iver’s fault,” Miles said, giving Chandler a stern look, as though he suspected Chandler was secretly blaming himself. He probably wasn’t wrong, Kent thought, glancing at Chandler and taking in the slump of his shoulders and weary lines around his mouth. 

“And yet my hand that always does the deed,” Chandler murmured. 

“Foster may yet pull through,” Riley said in a comforting tone. “And anyway, better his blood than any of ours. Mansell is safe, and that’s what matters.”

Kent went up to Chandler as the others dispersed. “You saved my life,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet.”

Chandler smiled. “You would have done the same.”

“Still. Thank you. And I’m sorry that we might lose Foster.” He sighed. “I should have called for help before going back in there. I didn’t think—”

Chandler cut him off. “I’m not sorry. Never think that I would place your life below that of a murderer.” He touched Kent’s cheek. “That goes for all the team, of course, but especially you.”

Blushing, Kent dropped his head. He caught Chandler’s other hand and gave it a quick squeeze. 

Miles caught his eye as he turned back to his desk and beckoned him over. Glancing at Chandler, who was going back into his office, he said quietly, “You look out for him, you hear? If you’re mad enough to fall in love with him, I suppose you’ll be doing that anyway. But just so we’re clear—he deserves someone who’ll look out for his happiness. Do that, and I won’t have any cause to step in.”

“Yes, Skip.” Kent grinned. 

“He’s a handful, but you know that already,” Miles continued, with a fond look at their DI.

“But worth it,” Kent added, and Miles nodded. 

“Yes. He is.”

*

Foster died on the operating table from a traumatic brain injury. The next day, forensics discovered the remains of Jamie Foster under the floorboards of the cupboard where Mansell had been held. 

Chandler took the news quietly, and the disappointment was leavened by Mansell’s return. Indeed, the afternoon devolved into a celebration of sorts, with beer and food miraculously appearing, although Riley and Miles stood as the most likely suspects. Erica even dropped by for a bit, and she gave Kent a hug and kissed his cheek, whispering, “Thank you.” Mansell put an arm around his shoulders. 

“Heard you cried when I turned up missing,” he teased. 

“Piss off,” Kent returned, giving him a good-natured shove and a smile. 

Mansell grinned. “And is it true that you and the boss finally hooked up?”

“Yes. We’re still figuring out what will happen with work, but yes.”

“Knew he couldn’t resist our sweet Em for long,” Erica added, sounding satisfied.

“We can do a double wedding,” Mansell said enthusiastically. 

Both Kent and Erica winced. 

“Finlay, what have I told you about this?” Erica said sternly and steered Mansell away to remind him that although she knew he loved weddings—was indeed perhaps overly fond of them— _she_ had no intention of marrying until she was good and ready. Most likely to him, but he’d better be on his best behavior—up to and following said nuptials.

Kent listened, grinning, and turned to find Ed beside him. 

“Another case solved,” Ed said, holding up his beer and clinking it against Kent’s. “I’ve started a collection strictly concerning our cases, you know. All properly documented—none of this piecemeal business that one so often finds in the records.”

“You’ll need another room for it,” Kent said, considering the volume of paper they’d accumulated just on Foster.

Ed nodded, a dreamy expression on his face. “I’m considering starting a fund.” He wandered over to the whiteboard, where all the photos and documents were still hanging. “Isn’t family a curious thing?” he murmured. “So many emotions. So much hate. And yet so much love, too.” He frowned, then, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“What is it?” Kent asked.

“Family,” Ed said slowly. “I wonder if—”

He cut off abruptly and hastened off, no doubt down to the archives.

Shaking his head and wondering what had captivated Ed this time, Kent went to seek out another beer and rescue Chandler from the double threat of Erica and Mansell.

They were just beginning to clean up, although Chandler had made several unsuccessful attempts to keep things in order as they went along, when Ed burst back into the room. 

“I have it!” he announced. “I know the secret of Louise Iver!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing, startled. 

“Well, let’s have it then,” Miles said, recovering. 

“We have been proceeding on the assumption that Louise Iver was behind everything, that one woman was responsible.” Ed bustled to the front of the room, waving a stack of photographs. “This has even led some of us to entertain the idea that Iver might be a supernatural entity, the immortal _provocateur_ behind all of Whitechapel’s misery. But what if—” He surveyed the room, lingering on the dramatic pause, “What if it is not one woman, but many? What if these crimes and their instigation have been a _family_ affair?”

Turning, he flipped over one of the boards, revealing the photos of Iver and the one of the little girl that they had found in her flat. “What if this is Louise Iver’s daughter?” he said. “What if Louise Iver herself is the daughter of a woman who passed along their family’s charge to provoke the murderous intent of their fellows, a charge conceived in blood and demonic darkness over a century ago?”

He held up some of the photos of crime scenes. “We have been searching for Iver alone, and always in the guise of an old woman. But look—here is a woman with a young girl in the 1980s. And there are more examples. Their ages will change, but it is always them. I fancy that you can see the family resemblance.”

“An entire family of sociopaths,” Chandler said, peering doubtfully at the photos. 

“And what about that altar?” Kent demanded. 

“The wooden figure, yes.” Ed nodded. “It may well have been Iver’s daughter who crept into the station that night and placed it on your desk. I imagine that each daughter is inducted into the tradition at an early age.”

“Why a daughter?” Riley said. “Why not a son? And what are the fathers doing in all of this?”

“That it is always a mother and daughter, is, admittedly, a hunch,” Ed replied. “Yet I draw your attention again to the altar, to the evidence of demonic ritual. Perhaps we are dealing with a ritualistic impregnation—”

“That’s all a bit _Rosemary’s Baby_ , isn’t it?” Kent objected. 

“Forget rituals, a one-night stand could do it,” Mansell chimed in. 

“Whatever the mechanics, it’s a lot more plausible than an immortal being,” Miles said. “And it means there’ll be evidence. Evidence that we can track down and pin on her _and_ her daughter.”

“Are there any historical precedents for this, Ed?” Chandler asked, still frowning at the photographs.

“Cults are an excellent example. A figure of authority inculcating followers in certain beliefs. I am not aware of a similar case where a family passed along such a charge over so many years. But,” Ed added, excitement lighting his eyes, “we may be forming precedent here! A new type of criminal to add to the annals of crime.”

“You needn’t sound so excited,” Riley protested. “I think it’s a horrible notion, if it is true.”

“It is horrible,” Chandler agreed. “But it’s our duty to find out the truth. I’m not sure what to think of this theory, Ed. But I don’t doubt that we’ll have the opportunity to test it. I’m afraid it will only be a matter of time before Iver incites another killer.”

“And when she does,” Miles said, “we’ll be ready.”

*

Chandler stopped Kent as he was erasing the last whiteboard later that day and preparing to head home.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Chandler asked, and Kent shook his head.

“After the past few days, I’m not looking for anything more exciting than dinner and bed.”

“Agreed.” Chandler paused and then asked, “Would you like to have dinner at mine?”

“Of course.” Kent smiled. “The case _is_ over, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And there’s a lot for us to discuss.” Chandler smiled back at him, though, and so Kent wasn’t worried.

Chandler made pasta this time, a bit of a carbohydrates splurge, Kent suspected. He felt more comfortable in Chandler’s flat this time, knowing where the utensils were kept and which chair he should sit in. Chandler seemed much more at ease, too, as though he had fit Kent into his mental ordering of the world. 

They kept their conversation light and inconsequential as they ate, but when they were washing the dishes, Chandler brought up the subject of work.

“I’ll put in for a transfer tomorrow,” Kent said. 

“No, you won’t have to do that. At least, not if my word holds any weight with the higher-ups.” Chandler offered a rueful smile. “It may not, after everything, but I do still have a friend or two.”

He frowned, puzzled. “What are you talking about?” 

Chandler turned to face him. “I’m recommending you for a promotion to Detective Sergeant.”

Kent gaped. “A…promotion?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes. Not to replace Miles, of course, and so you would be placed with another team.” He smiled. “You’re an excellent detective, Kent. It’s time that you took on more responsibility.”

Even as his heart warmed at the praise, he couldn’t help a tinge of worry. “You aren’t doing this just so we can be together, are you? I don’t want to be promoted because of that. If I don’t deserve it—”

“It’s not because of that,” Chandler said, grabbing his hands and for once not paying attention to the soapy water dripping on the floor. “Or at least, not completely. I’ve had it in mind for some time, and Miles agrees with me. Your work on this case has only served as further proof that you’re ready. And would it be terribly wrong if you receiving what you very much deserve allowed me to be with you?”

Kent shook his head because he couldn’t speak. He had never expected—never dreamed that Chandler or Miles thought so highly of him. 

Chandler kissed his forehead and then reached for the kitchen towel and crouched down to clean up the spilled water. Kent knelt beside him.

“But what about Iver?” he asked. “I can’t just leave you to face her on your own.”

“I won’t be on my own. I’ll have Miles, and Riley, and Mansell. Besides,” Chandler continued, “you’ll still be right here with me. You’re not planning on moving to Africa are you?”

Kent smiled and leaned over, pulling him into a hug. “No, not Africa. Not unless you go there because then I would follow.”

Chandler returned the embrace, and then stood, drawing Kent with him. 

“I’ve thought so much about this,” Kent murmured. “About you and me, together.”

“And how does the reality measure up?”

“So far it’s proving to be as wonderful as I always suspected,” Kent replied, kissing along Chandler’s jaw. “But I’m still gathering evidence.”

“Evidence is essential to building a strong case,” Chandler agreed, and he brushed his thumb at the corner of Kent’s mouth where it turned up into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't have done this without the help of Planejane and her Brit picking skills. She saved me from many Americanisms, and I learned more than I ever thought I would need to know about flat architecture in London.
> 
> For any who may wonder, I am not planning a sequel to this--I always intended it to be similar to an episode arc of the show, solving the case and bringing resolution to the Kent/Chandler story, but leaving the larger mystery of Louise Iver with some answers yet still haunting the characters'--and Whitechapel's--future.


End file.
